On the Horizon

I'm excited. My two weeks of summer break are coming up soon, and I have some awesome goings-on to look forward to.

First, my band, Foley Bluegrass, will be playing at the Lubbock Country Club and at an Ice Cream Social that serves as a fundraiser for a really old, really cool school-building*.

Second, the Tony Hillerman short-mystery-story deadline is fast approaching, and I will be submitting my short story, "Coffee and Cartels," to it! The folks over at Word Harvest can expect my entry soon.

Between song writing, mystery writing, and academic writing, I have my hands full right now. But busy doesn't have to be a bad thing...and it doesn't have to stop me from plotting my next story and/or song...

Speaking of busyness, I'm off to write another paper. Later!

*Picture of me, my sister, and my husband at the old Close City schoolhouse.

I need some SPACE!

I learned a lot this past month about writing. Specifically, rewriting--rewriting the past.
I've been writing fiction for nearly seven years, and I'd like to think I've made headway in that time. But, if my writing doesn't mean anything or change anything, what is the point?

So, after reading Object Lessons by Irish poet, Eavan Boland, I've decided to follow her example and start revising, re-appropriating within my own work. After all, my mystery is set in New Mexico and bolstered with Mexican and New Mexican folklore. Where is my place in that lore? Well, that's what I'm working to discover--my place and the places of others like me. People alive and struggling for space right NOW.

Interestingly, a character I thought was minor for months has suddenly taken on a role as story-teller inside my novel. She's renovating in ways I never saw coming, and it's a good, good thing.

Courage and Writing

There's a quote on my favorite coffee cup that inspires me to keep writing: "Courage doesn't always roar," it says, "Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, 'I will try again tomorrow'."

In the midst of doubts as to my writing ability (six rejections, on different pieces, in the last two weeks), it helps to remain objective--I'll take it one day at a time.

A Place of My Own...

I'm starting grad school on Monday, and today that means rereading part of Virginia Woolf's essay, "A Room of One's Own." Usually, I wouldn't chronicle my academic forays on this blog, but this particular reading assignment is of particular interest to me as a woman writer.

Woolf's essay touches on some pivotal issues that I really do face when I'm writing. As a woman--even a 20th or 21st century, or whatever darn century this is, woman--I have to struggle against precedents in the fields of fiction and academic writing. Precedents that, in Woolf's time, were set by men. The precedents have now been added to by women. In my case, that is a bad thing. For example, women writers in my favorite genre, mystery/thriller, have often written romantic mysteries, cozy mysteries, thrillers in which the protagonist is a female victim and males must save her (read any Iris Johansen novel), and etc. Because of this, if I use my full name as an author, my works may be overlooked or assumed to be inferior as serious mysteries.

I'm not arguing that women's contributions to genre writing are bad, because they aren't. I'm just saying that they are typified or categorized differently, marketed differently, portrayed differently, and valued differently. Some of this difference in merited; most of it is not.

When Woolf states that she thinks all women need a room of their own and 500 pounds a year in order to be able to write, she is arguing that they need a place, a precedent, in order gain independence, credibility, a foundation. More than that, though, they need a name. A name that is not decided by the dominant male writers in their field. I agree. I need ground to write on, the ability and the space to create despite the ever-pressing ideologies, duties, and demands of society. I need room to develop my own place and name, I don't want to be shaped into the mold.

And, speaking of molds, take a look at this mystery writing mold: Twenty Rules for Writing Detective Stories.

Poetry...

I don't consider myself a poet, but every once in a while I get an urge to write a poem. Or two. Take, for instance, my entry in the Spring 2011 literary journal my university produces:

Economy of Wounds

I’ll show you my scars

If you reveal yours

Silent reminders

Of many past wars

My own revolutions

Against being me

You’d call me a fraud

If you could see

I’ll show you my scars

If you reveal yours

Some self inflicted

To gain cheap rewards

My own revolutions

They aren’t all me

I need them for status

Nobody is free

This "inexplicable" urge, however, is actually explainable. And I really like the explanation. My great, great grandmother was a poet. She wrote haiku, free-verse, structured poems, and more. Every so often I rediscover the one book of hers I have. I never met her, but every time I read her poems I feel connected to her--and my crazy, writerly ways are a little bit more explainable.

Here is a poem she wrote:

Confession

The language, I admit, I abuse it

And frequently misuse it

With forethought quite malicious.

Now come on and admit you peruse it,

And thoughtfully chews it

With distaste quite delicious. --Kelly

Yep…I think we’re related.

Moving and Books

I have very toned arm muscles, and its not because I do an obscene amount of push-ups on a weekly basis. Nope. I carry books up and down stairs. Repeatedly.

Moving can be exciting, exhausting, and terrifying, but books make it even more so. It would be devastating to me to leave my books behind whenever I move. And, honestly, unpacking my books is the first thing I do after every move.

Still, my arms hurt. And look very muscular. I guess there will always be pros and cons...

'Twas Twelve Nights Before Christmas...

'Twas twelve nights before Christmas, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring...except for the mouse. Erm, excuse me, the sugar-glider.

He, Benjamin Dallas, a fuzzy little guy, scampered from his high-security cage like a well trained ex-spy. He wandered the tile floor, he explored the living room, and then he hastened toward my midnight doom.

Toward the warmth of my bed little Ben swiftly crept, in the hopes that he could cuddle in the crook of my neck. He climbed up the bedclothes, navigated my pillows, and zoomed like white lightning right straight for my hands.

Meanwhile, I, unawares, sojourned in other-wheres, floating in dreamland unaware of my fate.
Then, twelve nights before Christmas, a visiting furry pest got sidetracked by my unsuspecting hands.

He licked and he bit them, until I, the shocked one, sat bolt upright and scared poor Ben away. He ran and he scampered, and I, in mouse-suspecting fervor, reached toward my nightstand and switched on the lamp.

At that point, it happened, Ben looked up and, frozen, awaited his fate with a stolid blank stare. For above him, eyes open, watched the cat he'd awoken. Ben trembled just slightly as he wondered what to do.

But the moment, it passed, as that giant, watchful cat merely blinked his bright green eyes and looked toward me.

Ben scampered off my bed as I cursed my lazy feline friend and I stumbled after, to imprison the rat.

Well, the rest of the story is uneventful--even boring--and my sad attempt at rhyming has probably troubled your souls. But the moral of this story, though it's been crazy and occurred without warning, is to keep up your guard for late winter night guests. You may think they are harmless, you may think they are holiday guests...but the truth is they may just bite and lick you to death.

*based on true events.

~Courtney

P.S. Yes, this does mean that school is over for a few weeks and I can once again blog in a semi-regular fashion!