I did it! I conquered another bout of procrastination, but only after washing the dishes, balancing my checkbook, etc…Yeah, I did all the fun stuff first.

I completed a rough draft of the global warming story, but I am not sure if I will enter it in the Authonomy.com contest since the publisher won’t be paying the winners, only publishing them in an anthology and the publisher requires that the winning writers transfer their copyrights to Harper Collins.  This seems dodgy to me.  The publisher gets publicity for a “do-good” project and keeps what should be the writers’ earning for their own coffers.  Yuck!  And writers get exposure.  Whoopee!

Honey, my work is all over the Internet, I hardly need exposure.

Chicken Soup for the Soul series which collects the work of many authors, though a bit sentimental and cheesy, pays writers.  A few years ago, a poem of mine was accepted for the Chicken Soup for the Latin Soul and I received a check for around $200!  So why can’t an international publisher like Harper Collins pay the writers whose work is chosen for the anthology? It’s hardly a small university press publishing a literary journal and even some of those pay writers.  So what’s that all about?

Okay, I am through with my rant.  I feel relieved that I completed the rough draft for the story.  I plan on researching literary journals and magazines seeking stories on global warming (publications that pay writers).  With so much information on this topic coming at us from all sides, there must be tons of publications and contests seeking stories on the topic.

My take on global warming is that humanity is stuck in a tunnel. We can’t light any candles because we will end up using all the oxygen.  So we’re trapped in this tunnel with people who entertain bad habits such as smoking and if they had their cars with them, they would let the engine run like a bunch of morons.  We’re stuck in this tunnel, we don’t know when we will find our way out, and we have little time before we run out of oxygen.

The global warming situation seems dire to me.  But worse than that are the people in denial, the one’s who keep polluting, who live in la-la land and take the rest of us down with them.  How do we wake these fools up when their lost in consumer heaven and all their small choices they make throughout any given day equals death to the rest of us, animals, plants, and humans?

It’s hard not to feel outraged.  But I need to take some positive steps.  At heart I am an educator so I am starting another blog, Green Girl’s Guide to Do-it-Yourself Living, which I hope will wake some folks up to making changes in their daily habits.

Face it, we can’t rely on the governments of the world to deal with global warming now, and their slow process could lead to our demise.  Good intentions are not enough.  So it’s up to each of us to lighten our oily footprints and keep lightening them, making healthy choices everyday and keep informed of what else we can do to prevent catastrophic climate changes.

So keep your eye out for Green Girl’s Guide to DIY Living.  Coming soon.

I set part of the day aside to work on my novel, “Agnes et Yves”.  I need to make some logistical corrections to the scenes set in San Francisco.  Since I have never actually been to San Francisco, I made some educated guesses.  And a San Francisco-based writer fortunately pointed those mistakes out to me so I can correct them.

I also plan on writing a short story (fiction) about global warming.  Authonomy.com is hosting a contest on this theme so I rolled it around in my brain until I came up with characters and a plot–two sisters, one a mass consumer ignorant of the effects of climate change and a grassroots activist that attends lectures and reads every book on the topic–a clash between the two characters.  And you guessed it, the sisters represent the polar views of global warming that you hear about in the news.

I still have that story, “The Maiden of Mount Vernon” to complete, but I keep pushing it further back on the proverbial burner–the one that is turned off.  I hope it’s not one of those projects that does not manifest.  I have the right intentions to write it, but I am prone to distractions.  Some people call this procrastination.  However, my take on procrastination revolves around not having the information or resources to move forward with a project.  I could be wrong.

So on this Sunday, I vow to complete something, such as the corrections on “Agnes et Yves” and a rought draft on the global warming story.  But I still need to clean the bathroom, and this apartment needs dusting… And I could use some dark chocolate.

I knew I was keeping some distance between Daisy and myself when I started writing my novel in 3rd person omniscient. It was deliberate, and without that distance I might not have been able to continue.

Re-writing it in first person, saying ‘I’ did this, feels much more intimate. From feedback I’ve received I think Daisy’s story is stronger.

I’ve had time to get used to the story, so the intimacy that was at first scary, is now manageable. Daisy’s life already feels familiar. Stepping into  her point of view, as if I am Daisy, does feel intimate, but I am not Daisy. To have written about ‘her’ first, changing it to ’me’ later, seems to have granted me some distance that now allows me to write from Daisy’s heart.

Stef Nalton thinks it works, and I’m incredibly grateful for his thoughtful feedback. I’ve already made changes on his recommendation. I’ll soon re-load the new manuscript to Harper Collins’ authonomy website. Comments and reviews from other writers and readers will be welcomed!

Christmas Eve in Mulberry Avenue, and it was all going so well. Well, it was until I couldn’t find my new sparkly Christmas top.

We were due at our neighbours for drinks and nibbles at seven. The Christmas presents were all wrapped and hidden in the attic, apart from the tiny Russian hamster which was tucked safely out of sight in its brand new cage in the bottom of our wardrobe. Or so we thought.

I moved hangers from left to right three times in search of the spangly top that was guaranteed to lift John’s spirits higher than my boobs. Time was shorter than my skirt, and I gave up, mystified. I settled on a fluffy snow-white jumper, pinned my five-year-old daughter’s home-made holly garland to my breast, slicked red across my lips and popped a ruby in beneath them. My outfit didn’t have quite the desired effect, but the light in Charlotte’s eyes as she beamed a smile at me made up for the lack of sparkle in my husband’s, and at least I’d be spared my mother’s disapproving sneer.

Mother. Mother was staying with us for the duration. I would say enduration, but I don’t think such a word exists. Still, it’s a good word to describe our feelings as we endured the twelve days of Christmas in the company of an eternal optimist, as she liked to describe herself. Or ‘often pissed’, as we liked to describe her.

‘What’s that, dear? Don’t mumble so!” she said, as we whispered it.

“You were missed,” I said brightly.

“What? Take that metal out of your mouth and I might be able to understand you.”

“You know, when you didn’t come last year ‘cos you were on a cruise?”

“Cruise? Don’t be ridiculous, I’m not grieving! I’m having a ball!”

“Good. Come on, Mum, it’s time to go.”

We walked ten paces down our path to the gate, turned on the pavement and walked ten paced up the path to our neighbours’ front door. Paul’s bonhomie filled the open doorway but we could see past him to the welcoming tree that dominated the small hall of the Victorian terraced house, identical to ours but the wrong way round. Ours was the right way round, of course, with rooms off the hall to the right.

I’d learnt my mother’s trick of always being right, and managed to pull it off most of the time in my own house. Not in our neighbours’ house, though. No. Our dear friends, Sylvia and Paul were always right, and I demurred most of the time out of politeness. We had to live with them, after all. Fall-outs in our road were as frequent as Ryan Air flights, and I preferred an amiable life, at no small cost to my blood pressure and cat’s-bum mouth, sadly inherited from my mother along with an embarrassing preference for sweet sherry.

Charlotte looked like an angel in her cream velvet dress, and Oliver was young enough to remember real nappies he’d not yet adopted the low-slung crotch look of the street. So we looked a picture on Sylvia and Paul’s doorstep. So close to the perfect family I wished we’d thought to dress up in advance and have photos taken for our Christmas cards, a bit like the Royals, instead of panic-buying the bumper box from Tesco that I’d scribbled in haste after the last date for posting. Anyway, I hope you get the picture. I was proud.

That didn’t last long – Mother made sure of that. But I digress.

Charlotte had been begging us for a hamster all year, and we’d finally given in to her wheedling ways (she takes after the maternal line.) Keeping the secret had not been easy, and I did wonder at the wisdom of making her miserable in the lead up to Christmas, just to make the surprise all the more thrilling. But that was the tactic we seemed to have become embroiled in.

“It’s impossible, Darling. The cat would eat it – it wouldn’t be fair.”

Oh dear. Those words would come to haunt me.

The evening was as good as could be expected in the circumstances. The circumstances being trying distract my mother from the sherry and trying to keep my daughter’s sticky hands off the yummy Tia Maria bottle.

Still, we had a good time, the children were a delight, John played O Little Town of Bethlehem on the piano and we all sang ‘Time to go home now, I’ve got an aching head’ as we weaved up the path to our front door, Sylvia and Paul blowing kisses across the wall. John had Oliver cradled in his arms, his jeans slipped to almost street level, a hint of what was to come, his thumb stuck sleepily in his four year old mouth. Mother held onto me with a surprisingly strong grip, and Charlotte refused to hold anyone’s hand, her independent spirit already flying on ahead. We closed the door behind us, shoosh-ing each other as we giggled and stumbled and tripped over the flex from the fairy lights taped inadequately to the banister. Mother loosened them further as she climbed the stairs, John loaded with children behind her, saying, “I’ll take the kids up, tuck them in.”

I turned to the sitting room, fingers fumbling for the light switch, distracted by Squeek, our tabby-tiger cat, who was playing mouse in front of the Christmas tree, the stirred air sprinkling pine needles across the carpet. I flicked the switch and gasped. Tears filled my eyes as I realised what he was playing with. He really was playing mouse, except he was playing hamster. I started to shake – the sherry didn’t help – and I shooed Squeek out to the kitchen, scolding him through my stifled sobs as I shoved his furry butt through the cat flap. I met John on the stairs coming down, his arms full of presents. 

“What’s wrong?” he whispered.

“The cat got the hamster,” I said through fresh tears. I rushed past him to the bedroom.  I needed to remove all evidence of hamster-life, it was too sad to have a reminder of the tragedy hidden in our wardrobe. I slid the door as far to the right as it would go, and delved into the darkness for the cage hidden among the shoes, dragged it out, removed the water bottle from the bars. John was behind me.

“I’ll go down and clear it up,” he said, taking the hamster cage from me.

“Thanks, love. Hide the cage in the shed. I want to go in and say goodnight.” I dried my eyes, thinking, I’m no good at acting, but I can do this. I picked up the well-thumbed Santa book from Charlotte’s bedside table, knowing there were no cats or hamsters in the story, and sat down on my daughter’s bed, stroking curls from her forehead as I read about Santa flying through the sky bringing joy to all the children in the world. I sang Jingle Bells as she closed her eyes, images of Santa’s reindeers flying through her mind as I kissed her goodnight, sweet dreams, I love you.

John and I piled all the other presents underneath the tree, trying our best to be cheerful. John had made Charlotte an easel and blackboard, which looked like a big present, so we consoled ourselves with that as we went to bed.

I couldn’t sleep that Christmas Eve. The wind rustled the trees outside our window, and I lay staring into the darkness, sad for the poor little hamster who’d come to such a tragic end in our home. In the stillness of the bedroom, the rustling grew louder and more persistent, seemed to be coming from the wardrobe, haunting me.

I shook John, whispering loudly for him to wake up. I put on the bedside light as he was stirring, padded round the bed to the wardrobe, listening. The rustling was definitely coming from inside. John trailed the bedside lamp across the carpet, tilted the light to shine inside the wardrobe, behind the glass door. Something twinkled on the floor among the shoes. I peered into the shadows, watched sparkles glittering like stars in the darkened recess. John knelt to reach into the moving, shimmering twinkles, and I held my breath.

His arm came out with Houdini snuggled in the palm of his hand. We were both crying and laughing and shooshing each other not to wake the children. Houdini had made a bed on my sparkly Christmas top, which had slipped from the hanger to the floor. It was in shreds but Houdini wasn’t in bits at all. It seems Squeek had brought in a field mouse to play with under the Christmas lights, and we’d assumed the worst.

For Houdini, it was just a Christmas adventure. For Charlotte it was her best Christmas ever, with the best-ever present, her best-loved hamster, aptly named Houdini, the first of many she would love throughout her childhood.

She’s twenty-five now, and, to Charlotte, home is not a home without a hamster. She has two adored hamsters in her flat in London, and she’s bringing them home for Christmas.

We’ve postponed our plans for a new kitten to fill our empty nest – I think we’d best wait until the New Year, don’t you?
Wishing everyone a very Happy Christmas!

Update: 
I told her to wait, but no … Charlotte now has a Christmas kitten! A playmate for the hamsters … not really, it will be fine, honestly.:)

Read more fun Christmas stories on authonomy. Talking Turkey is full of funny true Christmas stories. Join up for free, read them, enjoy them, back them, then Harper Collins might even publish them!

This evening we had a merry time in our local market town where a Christmas fair was in full swing. The streets were closed to trafic and we enjoyed mulled wine and mince pies in the drizzle, compliments of the town’s new NHS dentist. A coincidence, because I’d just made an appointment for a check-up this afternoon, having decided we’d been fleeced for long enough by the private sector.

A novel and jolly way to make my new dentist’s acquaintance. He looked very dapper standing on the pavement in the rain, smiling at passers-by while ladling warm wine into plastic cups. He even offered mouthwash and pre-cut lengths of floss to ensure good oral hygiene after we’d finished munching the mince pies.

A true Christmas story. Apart from the last bit – I made that up (about the floss and mouthwash, in case there’s any doubt!) For more funny ‘cos they’re true Christmas stories, check out Talking Turkey. Have a giggle at our expense – we’re not proud. Anyone can read them for free – just sign up to authonomy to get in the Christmas mood. Even better, add it to your shelf – you’ll be helping the book on its journey to publication, maybe even in time for next Christmas.  A perfect addition to every Christmas stocking in the land!

More than anything I would love to edit some of my short stories today or write music reviews for my other blog, The Whole Music Experience.  Unfortunately, I need to apply for temporary jobs and send out resumes to non-profits (some of which aren’t hiring at the moment).  They call this networking.  I call it planting seeds for a future harvest.

“All Saints’ Day” has been removed from Authonomy.com and this feels like the right move to me.  I received a lot of compliments for the novel and some support, but I don’t think any of the readers understood the spiritual messages in the novel, leaving me feeling useless as a writer.  And I doubt any agents or publishers saw my novel on the site so I felt like I was just tramping in the woods instead of reaching any goals of publication for the novel.  I lost sight of the road.

I don’t think the website is a time waster unless a writer plays the game of reading swaps to rise to the top and does not improve their manuscripts.  The site works best as a place to network, acquire critiques and learn from some of the more experienced authors.  It’s also a good place to test out some of the other genres and learn the tricks-of-the-trade.

However, the environment that the more competitive authors set can be draining and lead to depression, stress and anxiety.  It did for me.  The ranking system needs to go because it’s awful and has nothing to do with a writer’s real talent, but revolves around how much time the author has to shelve other authors’ books sometimes without even reading them!  On the surface it looks like these authors are supporting other authors by shelving books, but in reality, they are just climbing on other authors’ backs to reach the top because they expect all of those authors whose works they shelved to reciprocate the favor.  I refuse to play the game and only read a book if it interest me.

So back to the economy.  A lot, I don’t have a statistic, of unemployed people are trying their hands at writing, and many are turning to novel-writing.  Some of them mention that they always had this dream of writing a novel on the back burner, but they had children to raise, a job to go to everyday and most likely the two hours or more a day of swimming their way through peak hour traffic.

I, on the other hand have written since I was a child.  I have struggled as a writer and learning the ropes of many writing disciplines since I turned 22 and I am now 45-years old.  I paid my dues, not swimming through peak hour traffic or working a permanent job, not raising children, but sacrificing my sanity to actually write.  I worked for “exposure” (unpaid work) and I have worked for peanuts.  I have already written three novels, several movie scripts and hundreds of poems.  I have performed my work in venues throughout Seattle and been published in small literary journals and zines.  I am not new to this, but find myself now, in a sea of new writers and those with more resources to get their work out in the world because they at least have pensions.  Is this fair? No.  And 20 some years later agents are still rejecting my queries.  I am willing to do what it takes to publish my novels.  I have a background in marketing myself.  And I have some interesting ideas, intriguing characters and scenarios, if only a door or two would magically open.

And now, ironically, I am seeking a part-time office job (though it must be for a good cause, because I refuse to go corporate), so that I can support myself when I follow my literary quest to publication.  I feel frustrated at the moment with this situation.  I would rather be spending time with my characters, working out scenarios and sending off pitches.

I do believe though that if a person is resourceful they can land a stimulus package produced job and that’s what I am doing at the moment.  But I believe that my destiny is to write and perform my music.  Why can’t I do that?

A gaggle of writers from across the world have flocked together to produce an international first – a collection of funny ‘cos they’re true Christmas short stories. Talking Turkey is a wonderful collection of heart-warming seasonal cheer – the stories are as diverse as you’d expect from writers whose backgrounds are as different as you can imagine.

Writer Sheena Ignatia came up with the idea, and it’s her zany enthusiasm and drive that made us all flock to be part of the fun.
No wonder Talking Turkey is top of authonomy’s weekly chart!

Sara Lawrence writes in today’s Daily Mail that 2009 has been an amazing year for chick-lit. She says some of it is awful, but a lot of it is magnificent, and that it’s a pity commercial women’s fiction is ignored so resolutely by the literary snobs.

This is a subject that’s been on my mind since first uploading Daisychains of Silence to authonomy. I originally tagged it as chick-lit, though I knew it wasn’t a light, feel-good read – I just thought (because it has a happy ending) it might broadly fit the genre. Fellow writers soon told me it wasn’t really chick lit, and that I should tag it as literary fiction, which I quickly did and it flew up to number twelve – apparently the fastest rising book on on authonomy.

I’m still not sure, athough I know Daisychains appeals to men as well as women because many wonderful reviews have been from male readers. But Daisy’s journey will  appeal to women of all ages, and it does end happily. I still wonder if the literary fiction tag is the right one for what is simply a story of a girl coming to terms with a choatic early life. The love of a good man saves her, and she learns to forgive herself along the way – and him, when he has a mid-life wobble. I hope it fits the ‘commercial women’s fiction’ tag, which authonomy doesn’t list as an option.

Certainly, Hilary Johnson’s Advisory Bureau described it as a ’sensitively and intelligently written story’.  I would really love an agent or publisher to guide me!  Are you out there, listening?

It has cheered and thrilled me to discover fellow authonomist Miranda Dickinson’s first book, Fairy Tale of New York, has flown into the Sunday Times top-ten bestseller list just a few days since hitting the shops.

I remember Miranda Dickinson’s book from authonomy, at that time entitled Coffee at Kowalski’s, and her kind review of Daisychains of Silence was one of many which spurred me on to finish my book.

This is wonderful news, not only for Miranda, but for all debut novelists, and a potent reminder to carry on hoping and dreaming and most of all, writing!

There’s Christmas cheer on authonomy. Sheena Ignatia has compiled a collection of Funny ‘cos they’re True Christmas stories -  heartwarming, tear-jerking and most of all, funny. I’ve read several, and the standard is so high, I hesitate to send my little offering about Houdini the Christmas Hamster. But I will, ‘cos my daughter laughed and cried when I sent it to her for approval.

Sheena’s even set up a website and blog, Talking Turkey where you can read extracts from the Christmas stories and share in the festive spirit!

Thank you, Sheena – you’ve done a brilliant job bringing all these writers together, and have produced a feast of festive fun!

Last night I could not sleep.  The winds returned at 35 mph with gusts up to 70 mph and the rain fell in sheets.  But I had some time to think about the ever-present themes in my novels.  The one theme that came up in all three of my novels thus far revolves around the characters’ need for liberation.

In the pages of “Go, Lucy Go” Lucy Yakamoto, the main character, struggles with adult responsibilities and the constant need to have fun.  Lucy, a Japanese exchange student came to the States on a lark and ended up at Evergreen State College in Olympia, Washington.  You just can’t find a better place for culture clash, and on many levels.  Why the conservative set and politicians hobnob at the State Capitol, the students at Evergreen live their progressive, politically correct lives to the hilt.  Not only that, this story takes place in the 1990s when a do-it-yourself music scene held some prominence in Olympia.

At first Lucy seeks sexual liberation, but then that leads to finding herself, rather quickly, in a year’s time.  She discovers that she wishes to live the life of a pop star so she returns to Japan and changes her fortune.  The novel attracted some attention on Authonomy, but was rejected by the handful of agents I queried.  It might have been the phone booth sex that takes place at the start of the novel.  I did not write that scene for shock value, but to dive into Lucy’s head.  It worked for me.

If you would like to read sample chapters from “Go, Lucy Go,” you can do so at http://www.golucynovella.blogspot.com

Agnes and Yves in another of my novels, also seek liberation.  Francophobe Agnes seeks liberation from her journalism job and an assignment of an article about French painters.  She also just seeks an escape from adult life and hopes to lose herself in an affair with a Spanish musician.  Yves hopes to liberate himself from his overbearing lover and former model so that he can paint again.  They end up finding balance with adult responsibilities and pursuing their dreams.

I do not have a blog for “Agnes et Yves” but you can read sample chapters on Authonomy.com  Just type in the title in the search box.

The characters in “All Saints’ Day” seek a different type of freedom.  As the title of the book implies, we are dealing with saints.  They have reincarnated to Manhattan and find themselves dealing the same problems as us non-saints.  Again, those adult responsibilities come up, such as saving the earth from all kinds of perils, loving other creatures and loving each other in a non-celibate way. 

Jeanne d’Arc escaped any kind of sexual relationship or family life in her medieval life.  Francesco of Assisi knew carnal knowledge but after taking a vow of celibacy also walked away from any sort of intimate relationship or family life.  In a way, running off to war or the grottos for a mystic experience could be called a type of escapism.  Yet, the responsibilities of saving a country (Jeanne) or starting a religious brotherhood (Francesco) has its own set of duties and even a heavier responsibility than either of those saints could have imagined.

So the question I ask in my novels is can we take on our life missions and still feel liberated? Do we escape enslavement by following what’s in our hearts despite the responsibility thrust on our shoulders?

Chapters from “All Saints’ Day” (a mystical comedy), found at http://www.allsaintsnovel.blogspot.com or the most  updated version at http://www.authonomy.com/ViewBook.aspx?bookid=9471

I submitted Daisychains of Silence to Legend Press a month ago, and the more I discover about the company’s innovative, accessible approach and the fresh, original books they publish, the more I believe they would be the perfect home for Daisychains.

I’m reminded of one of my first authonomy reviews, when highly respected writer and reviewer, Maria Bustillos, author of Dorkismo, and co-founder of Booksquawk, said of Daisychains:

“WOW I’m in love, I’m in love love love. I have mowed through such a lot of manuscripts here, which can be a little discouraging sometimes, so it’s just such an absolute JOY to find this beautifully written, sensitive, freaky, cool, wonderful book. Ms. Mair. It’s some of the loveliest, most polished and elegant prose I’ve seen on here. I would buy this in a heartbeat. I love Daisy. She breaks your heart from the first moment. How she is with her mom, with Joanna, it’s so believable, so warm despite all the pain and weirdness …

Also the themes of sewing, needles, weaving … women. I grew up with seamstresses and even the way you describe cutting thread and knotting the end is so truthful, and just right somehow. Not a false note anywhere and so perceptive and wonderfully observant.”

Fingers crossed that Legend Press agree!

I started writing Daisychains of Silence in 2003, and the first four thousand words were lost in the depths of an old hard drive, under the inauspicious file name of ‘Stitcher’.

I opened the file early this year, something about it clicked and I carried on writing. In March, I uploaded the first 10,000 words onto Harper Collin’s authonomy website, and to my shock it flew up the charts, rocketing to number 12 in just three weeks. I was told it was the fastest rising book authonomy had ever seen. It was thrilling and frightening – I knew it wasn’t ready to receive a Harper Collin’s review, so I removed it to carry on writing.  It’s now a finished manuscript – a completed novel of 80,000 words.

Reviews from fellow writers can be read on the authonomy website. I re-loaded it for further feedback and it’s currently at number 53.

I sent it to Hilary Johnson’s Advisory Bureau for their thoughts. They described Daisychains as ‘a sensitively and intelligently written story’, which I found very encouraging.

I am now actively seeking representation. I’ve had some interest from publishers, but nothing definite, and I would really love to have an agent to help me along on my journey to publication. I’m happy to make any revisions a professional may recommend.

I’m also the copyright holder of all my father’s works. Alistair Mair was a successful novelist in the 1960s and 1970s and was the Scottish President of PEN from 1965 – 1970.

Copyright ©Diana Robinson 2009. All Rights Reserved. 

Oh dear. I should have learned by now, but I’m finding it impossible to write anything while I’m active on authonomy. And I really want to write!

I’ve failed NaNoWriMo already. Daisychains of Silence is almost inside the top 50 on authonomy - it’s currently at number 53, and I’ve been telling myself that once it’s inside 50 again I’ll be able to get on with writing, happy to leave it there in the window.  

However, I know this is an illusion, and that once inside the magic top 50 books, I’ll be compelled to keep it there by reading and commenting on other books. The trouble is I enjoy reading, even on screen, and some of the books I’ve discovered on authonomy are just brilliant. Not only that, the reader reviews are so helpful, it’s hard to walk away from the wonderful feedback from other writers.

I read twenty four chapters of one book today, and the first three chapters of a couple more. All at the expense of writing. And writing is the thing I should be doing. I’ve enjoyed reading all my life, but now I’m meant to be writing. It’s a dilemma, and one I can’t seem to find the solution to.

In the time I was away from authonomy, I managed to finish Daisychains, and sent the manuscript out to several agents and publishers, some of whom asked to see more, which was very encouraging. It hasn’t been taken on yet, but it’s still with a couple of agents, and no news is good news as far as I’m concerned – they haven’t rejected it yet!

I could prattle on about this forever in this blog, but arguing it over with myself gets me nowhere. I’ve made some lovely friends on authonomy, and had some excellent feedback. But the time it takes away from writing, and from life, is something I struggle with daily.

NanoWriMo gave me a head start with my new book, and I’m pleased with the story. Now I need to get on with writing it. In fact, I’m itching to write it! It’s bubbling around in my head, scrabbling at the edges of my mind in its eagerness to get out onto paper.

It’s time for a mental break. I am dealing with a host of menopausal-related problems, physical and mental and the stress from pitching articles, pitching novels and watching my novels fall deeper into the red zone on Authonomy have been too much.

The French cultural organizations and French culture authors ignored the e-mails I sent out about “Agnes et Yves” and I feel despair.  Perhaps my pitch did not interest them or my e-mails ended up in spam folders.  I’ll never know.  The two agents that I contacted about the novel have not shown an interest either.

I decided to switch “All Saints’ Day” to private at the end of this month.  The way the Authonomy site works is that a novel does not rise to the top unless the author is willing to read a lot of other novels on the site, comment and shelve a multitude of novels.  It only works for the popular folks.  It feels too much like a high school popularity contest and too much like a game in which I don’t know the rules, or care to know them.  I can’t spend anymore time on that site because I freelance for a living and need to spend my time actually earning money.

My reasoning at first was that I would push my novels, read as many other novels as possible and that I would at least get my novels into the Top 100, but it’s too much work.  I end up reading novels that were abandoned by authors so they don’t even know I read their work.  Or authors of thrillers read one chapter of my novel, shelve it and expect me to reciprocate even though I can’t stand reading thrillers, and refuse to read them.

At least I am waking up to the fact that Authonomy only works as a place to park a novel in hopes that an agent or publisher stumbles upon it.  I originally thought that I was growing as a writer having my work on that site, until I realize that I might have ruined my novels by taking too many suggestions.   So it’s time to rely on myself and follow my own inner light.

The journey does not end here, it begins on a new path.  Time for Plan B, as soon as I come up with it.

Neither of my novels, “All Saints’ Day” or “Agnes et Yves” are moving on the Authonomy site at the moment.  I am not surprised given the amount of superficiality on the site, the amount of game playing to push a novel along.  And I ask myself, is any of this stress worth it?

I noticed a core group of sincere authors on the site.  These authors leave thoughtful and constructive comments after reading a few chapters thoroughly.  They also encourage writers to keep on moving forward.  I adore this group of writers.

Then there are the others, stuck in their egos and Coyote machinations.  One author on the site, uses the same old worn out comment that the site went down while he tried to read an author’s work.  He shelves anyways, without leaving any constructive comments in hopes that the author will be so grateful for the shelving that they will reciprocate.  Every time I see this author’s comments left on the site, I cringe.  I despise dishonesty in all forms.

Then there are authors whose work is not worthy of the Top 5, but somehow they push their way quickly to the top.  Meanwhile, some fantastic work, gets buried in the slush pile.  Many brilliant authors have left the site, I would guess because of the stress and frustration.

And I realize the level of superficiality of the site.  My hope is that an agent or publisher will discover my novels in the slush pile.  I have no hopes of getting into the Top 5.  It takes too much work and I would rather spend my time sending out queries to agents than mass reading.

On occasion I discover a real beauty in the slush.  I have enjoyed many of the books I have read on Authonomy and there were others that felt like torture because of all the grammatical errors, and prose weighed down with too much description.

The belief that anyone can write a novel is a false one.  Inspiration must be followed through with diligence and hard work.  A diamond in the rough needs a lot of polishing before it shines.  Writing requires a lot of mental sweating, but even that is not enough.  If a writer does not come from the heart, then it’s all a waste of time.

Back to the grind.

I wish all the saints from all religions joyful energy.  Saints inspire me to move beyond my fears, to make necessary sacrifices and to love the world whole heartedly.

In 2004, I had become acquainted with Saints Francesco and Chiara of Assisi.  I practiced automatic writing every morning in which I allowed the saints to speak to me.  They offered predictions for my future and that of the world, many of those predictions surfaced in reality.  The saints told me that I would write my first novel or that the saints would write it through me, a comedy.

I balked at the thought.  How could I write a comedy about saints residing in Manhattan? I put this task off for as long as possible thinking it would go away, or that some other writer, one that is actually religious (I am not), could write the novel.  I even felt embarrassed approaching librarians about books on saints.  I remember asking them at a barely audible whisper so that those people standing in line behind me would not hear.

But the saints and the story set in Manhattan did not go away.  In fact, everywhere I went saints greeted me through memorabilia, saint images, books, phrases and you would be surprised how many places Saint Francesco came up!  Saint Anthony of Padua came to me in a kitchen gadget shop of all places.  At least I think it was Saint Anthony. 

So one morning I got out a new notebook and wrote the first 6 pages of “All Saints’ Day” which involved a marriage between Jeanne d’Arc and Francesco.  Throughout 2005 I continued writing the first draft, two notebooks full of my bad handwriting which I typed on my computer later. 

To make a long story short, I eventually entered the novel in an online contest where I felt encouraged by the few people who commented on it.  Prior to that I blogged the entire novel, though upside down on Blogger.  You can still find remnants of the novel–a few chapters at http://www.allsaintsnovel.blogspot.com

You can also read chapters at http://www.authonomy.com/ViewBook.aspx?bookid=9471

Happy All Saints’ Day to those who honor the saints and everyone else too!

Daisychains of Silence is public again on authonomy. I’m pleased and surprised to see it’s come in at number 76, so although it’s fallen, it’s still in the top 100, which is a good place to be. It’s listed under literary fiction, though I’m not sure that’s the best description for a story that has appealed to so many people. It’s commercial, it’s contemporary, it’s for women, but also for men. One male reviewer who’s fabulous book received a Harper Collins’ Gold Star, said:

“Wow! What an unexpected pleasure this was. I love the relationship between Daisy and her Mother. There are some real gems of heartbreakingly funny and sad dialogue here. I especially loved the ‘you were never girly’ interchange. There’s no way this is chick-lit, it appeals to everyone who ever had a mother. Great stuff.”

Over the next few days I hope to find time to read and comment on authonomy, and might set up a page listing some of my favourite unpublished books. Really, the standard of writing on authonomy is extremely high, I feel honoured to be among such talented writers.  Reading a novel on screen can be tiring, so I tend to do my reading in episodic bursts of activity, and happily dip into all genres – fiction and non-fiction.

National Railway Museum

A trip to York has been an excellent excuse to neglect Authonomy where The Water’s Edge is now sinking down the rankings. And if I am ever to get on with my rewrite project I’m afraid that sink it must. Even maintaining its current position requires too much effort in finding and swapping reads. But I have made some good writing friends on Authonomy and hope I’ll catch up with them when the novel is put back together again. (Ali, Jane, Diana, Elinor, Lellie and Sandrine – this means you!)

 Ironically, as I withdraw from the fray, I am just starting to understand some aspects of how the ranking system works. It turns out that points allocated to a book when it’s backed vary according to the ‘reviewer rank’ of the backer. Reviewer points are allocated depending on the progress of a book after you have backed it, i.e. backing a ‘best seller’ book  will do little for your own reviewer ranking; backing an ‘unknown’ that subsequently shoots up the charts will boost your own rank – and consequently makes you a more effective backer of other books. Very cunning, methinks, and does something to mitigate the idea that it’s purely a numbers game.

 If anyone is still paying attention, I can tell you that The Water’s Edge has been backed by three ‘top reviewers’ so far. More perplexing is that while my book rank is hovering just outside 600, my reviewer rank is a tidy 375.   Okay, I think it is a numbers game after all. Or does this mean I should give up writing and become a professional editor?  

 While ignoring my read/review duties I also found a useful article on writing historical novels, which makes a clear statement that the story, rather than the research, is the thing to get right So all that research, however useful, is just a way of putting off the inevitable.  

 I think I knew that really.

“Agnes et Yves” a novella I posted on Authonomy.com two weeks ago, has occupied most of my time and most of my brain cells.  I keep finding typos, wrong tenses and flat dialogue, which I immediately correct.  Then new scenes, one involving an endless day at the Louvre keeps popping into my thoughts.

A complete dialogue and visuals haunted me at midnight.  I had already been asleep for a few hours, tucked into my warm bed and I did not feel like getting up and jotting down the dialogue or scene.  So I tossed and turned, rallied through two hours of insomnia and felt electricity jolting through my body, figuratively speaking.

I have not been able to make it through the rough draft without interruptions–go back to chapter so and so and change this or that, then the constant corrections for the chapters posted on Authonomy jam up the flow, so to speak.

The plan now is for me to jot down the scene ideas and any changes that I need to make to the dialogue, sentences etc…Then keep plowing ahead through the remaining chapters begging for proofread and polishing.

I have this feeling that novels never complete themselves even after published on the shelves of bookstores.  I know I will still be nitpicking and critiquing my novels long after they have landed in readers’ hands.  Such is life or as Yves would say, “C’est la vie!”

Back to the grind.

The highs and lows of trying to get published are something every writer must experience, whether it’s an article or an epic novel. It’s been a bit of a roller-coaster for me, one that began in March this year when I loaded an early draft of Daisychains of Silence onto Harper Collins’ authonomy website. It flew up the charts, reaching no. 12 in three weeks, which was thrilling and absolutely terrifying. I knew it wasn’t ready so I removed it to carry on writing. Now it’s finished and is currently being considered by two literary agents.

Last week was exciting – Daisychains had been requested by a major literary agent; then came a lovely letter, very encouraging, but ultimately rejecting it due to the current market conditions. But this is just the start of a long journey, so good reason to remain optimistic.

I spent my Sunday proofreading chapters from “Agnes et Yves” and preparing a query for “All Saints’ Day” to send to a big literary agent in the Los Angeles area.

I read an interview with Elise Capron with Sandra Dijkstra Literary Agency, that the agency seeks new novelists and new voices. I fit both bills even if I have written three novels thus far.

I will send the query. The only option is by post, I route I normally don’t take since money is tight and postage can get expensive. I am sure other writers can relate.

I have thought of submitting short stories to two e-book publishers, that I believe publish short stories.

I have not had much luck with e-book publishers in the past, but I have cleaned up my short stories and manuscripts.

Actually, I learned a lot of grammatical rules and other ways to improve a manuscript from the other authors on the Authonomy site.

I am feeling hopeful, and I hope the other shoe does not land on my face any time soon. I have already been writing for over 23 years, though I have only been writing novels since 2004.