Ever since an epic motorcycle tour of western Canada and Northwest USA with my husband in July, I’ve experienced one interruption after another colliding with my running and writing. Ever notice how very few windows in life line up perfectly?
Today’s run: Great! I grabbed a jacket and hit the road, timing school zones perfectly. I enjoyed fall colors tinting leaves and returned before the sun rose. Best of all, I conquered all interruptions—including a whining knee—getting those windows of opportunity nicely lined up.
Writing: A few weeks ago I read something that made me pause and think, and it occurred to me that distractions change destiny. Not all changes are disastrous—some are improvements—but there is still some type of change. I took a look at some noisy distractions in my life and noticed they were derailing me completely—knocking me way off course. Unless I changed things fast I’d never reach my desired destination, or I’d end up at a second choice (possibly second-rate destination), pretending it's where I intended going, or trying to make the best of the outcome.
Since that revelation I've taken some time to evaluate where I really want to end up, and what kinds of roads I need to travel to get there. Here are my quotes—I made them up over the course of a few days—but of course, they’re nothing earth-shatteringly new or profound, just my way of stringing a few wise thoughts together with words:
Distractions change destiny.
Distractions create detours and delays.
Back to running in my happy little village: I've turned a few corners and found orange cones blocking my way. Sometimes it’s fun searching out an alternate route, but other times—not so much. Always as I run I chart a course that finishes on my doorstep, even if I try out a new path along the way. So far I've succeeded. If that’s a sampling of life, I can finish that final edit and query. Without distractions. Because publishing is my destiny.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Diluted vs. Full Strength
Warning: if you didn’t read my last post, then you’re reading the ending before the beginning. Go back a post for the full story, or move forward for the conclusion only.
He licked his fangs… continued.
Cornered, my knocking knees dug into a waist-high snow bank transformed into ice beneath the winter sun. There was no possible escape route. Killer pressed his snout against my tender, juicy backside and growled. Slowly, cautiously, hoping to cause no alarm, I pulled my cell phone from my pocket. I had no animal control or police phone number, and couldn’t jog the half mile to the police station, so I pushed 9-1-1. Each chime angered Killer. He pushed harder and growled deeper in his throat—the area a meaty chunk of my behind would soon encounter if help didn’t arrive.
Dispatch: “What is your emergency?” The very sound of the operator’s voice sent Killer into a rage, filling the neighborhood with deafening barks.
Me: (whispered): “Help. A huge dog has me cornered.” The dog is now nearly crazy with rage at the sound of my voice.
Dispatch: “Where are you?”
Me: “River Meadow Drive.” (Glad I knew!)
Dispatch: “Where?” (She couldn’t hear over barking and growls.)
Dispatch's final decision: Call in the closest officer, realizing I’d die a vicious death soon, and staying on the line, she’d be monitoring my demise. I endured torture until a black and white cruiser showed up.
An officer pulled up and Killer relinquished two feet of breathing space. Officer Buff—a big man dressed in black, boxy boots and weighted down with numerous weapons—grinned. Poor lady freezing to death with a dog glued to her buns, he thought. Better not laugh at her—I’ll have plenty of time later. He climbed from his car—tough and to the rescue. (Cushy job—this noble knight bit.)
I witnessed a dancing cop as Killer charged him. Office Buff bolted, bucked, hopped and skipped. His arms swung, snatching for his gun, his tazer, his car door handle—the handle was the only thing he pulled because that brought immediate escape. He revved his engine. Killer threatened to shred his tires. He hollered at me to circle the car and get in the back seat. Killer staked his claim on me, pinning me to the snow bank, each growl vibrating through my dog-chow behind.
Office Buff, seeing my danger and knowing his, bravely ventured from his metal and glass protection, yelling at me to race around the car as he occupied Killer’s attention. He danced before a snapping audience and I ran! Officer Buff escaped unscathed, smugness and humor wiped from his expression. And thus, I have lived to run again.
And what became of Killer, you ask? I assume an officer hunted down his address and offered an ultimatum, as promised. He hasn’t prowled the streets alone since, and only recently have I dared pass through River Meadow Drive.
He licked his fangs… continued.
Cornered, my knocking knees dug into a waist-high snow bank transformed into ice beneath the winter sun. There was no possible escape route. Killer pressed his snout against my tender, juicy backside and growled. Slowly, cautiously, hoping to cause no alarm, I pulled my cell phone from my pocket. I had no animal control or police phone number, and couldn’t jog the half mile to the police station, so I pushed 9-1-1. Each chime angered Killer. He pushed harder and growled deeper in his throat—the area a meaty chunk of my behind would soon encounter if help didn’t arrive.
Dispatch: “What is your emergency?” The very sound of the operator’s voice sent Killer into a rage, filling the neighborhood with deafening barks.
Me: (whispered): “Help. A huge dog has me cornered.” The dog is now nearly crazy with rage at the sound of my voice.
Dispatch: “Where are you?”
Me: “River Meadow Drive.” (Glad I knew!)
Dispatch: “Where?” (She couldn’t hear over barking and growls.)
Dispatch's final decision: Call in the closest officer, realizing I’d die a vicious death soon, and staying on the line, she’d be monitoring my demise. I endured torture until a black and white cruiser showed up.
An officer pulled up and Killer relinquished two feet of breathing space. Officer Buff—a big man dressed in black, boxy boots and weighted down with numerous weapons—grinned. Poor lady freezing to death with a dog glued to her buns, he thought. Better not laugh at her—I’ll have plenty of time later. He climbed from his car—tough and to the rescue. (Cushy job—this noble knight bit.)
I witnessed a dancing cop as Killer charged him. Office Buff bolted, bucked, hopped and skipped. His arms swung, snatching for his gun, his tazer, his car door handle—the handle was the only thing he pulled because that brought immediate escape. He revved his engine. Killer threatened to shred his tires. He hollered at me to circle the car and get in the back seat. Killer staked his claim on me, pinning me to the snow bank, each growl vibrating through my dog-chow behind.
Office Buff, seeing my danger and knowing his, bravely ventured from his metal and glass protection, yelling at me to race around the car as he occupied Killer’s attention. He danced before a snapping audience and I ran! Officer Buff escaped unscathed, smugness and humor wiped from his expression. And thus, I have lived to run again.
And what became of Killer, you ask? I assume an officer hunted down his address and offered an ultimatum, as promised. He hasn’t prowled the streets alone since, and only recently have I dared pass through River Meadow Drive.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Diluted Stories vs. Depth, Dimensions & Details
Running:
My best run ever: The day I safely returned home—thanks to a daring rescue.
Writing:
Too much fluff can kill a story, but leaving out details destroy one as well. Diluted, undeveloped, one-dimensional stories are boring. Mere facts and statements don't make memorable tales.
Running revised:
I achieved my best run ever on a gorgeous day in January under a crystal blue sky. Temperatures topped the mid-twenties. Winds had lulled. The sun had ditched hibernation. I shed my jacket, tying it around my waist, to soak up the generous supply of vitamin D. As I reached the home-bound stretch it occurred to me that I ought to learn street names in my little village. Some are common, like 3rd North, but some have meaning. I turned onto River Meadow Drive, and being address/directional challenged, wondered how I’d remember the name. Perhaps three blocks earlier I’d crossed the nearest river—a stream that rages during spring runoff and disappears soon afterward—nothing close to a true river. But where River Meadow Drive intersects 3rd North there is a meadow, and far off and unseen, the river cuts across the meadow's edge. Turning uphill, I concentrated on repeating the name—River Meadow Drive, River Meadow Drive, remember, a river and a meadow, remember River Meadow Drive where there is no river but there is a meadow nearby. I did this until I spotted Spot, or Sport, or Killer, or whatever the owners named that huge beast they called a pet.
All thoughts of memorizing innocuous street names fled my gray cells, and only escaping remained. I crossed the road. Dog crossed. I crossed again. Dog did likewise. I slowed. Dog advanced. I halted. Dog picked up pace. I retreated. Dog angered and cornered me—a tasty looking treat. I looked for cars, people, witnesses, rescue.
None.
Dog looked for witnesses.
None.
He licked his fangs.
Stay tuned for Part 2.
My best run ever: The day I safely returned home—thanks to a daring rescue.
Writing:
Too much fluff can kill a story, but leaving out details destroy one as well. Diluted, undeveloped, one-dimensional stories are boring. Mere facts and statements don't make memorable tales.
Running revised:
I achieved my best run ever on a gorgeous day in January under a crystal blue sky. Temperatures topped the mid-twenties. Winds had lulled. The sun had ditched hibernation. I shed my jacket, tying it around my waist, to soak up the generous supply of vitamin D. As I reached the home-bound stretch it occurred to me that I ought to learn street names in my little village. Some are common, like 3rd North, but some have meaning. I turned onto River Meadow Drive, and being address/directional challenged, wondered how I’d remember the name. Perhaps three blocks earlier I’d crossed the nearest river—a stream that rages during spring runoff and disappears soon afterward—nothing close to a true river. But where River Meadow Drive intersects 3rd North there is a meadow, and far off and unseen, the river cuts across the meadow's edge. Turning uphill, I concentrated on repeating the name—River Meadow Drive, River Meadow Drive, remember, a river and a meadow, remember River Meadow Drive where there is no river but there is a meadow nearby. I did this until I spotted Spot, or Sport, or Killer, or whatever the owners named that huge beast they called a pet.
All thoughts of memorizing innocuous street names fled my gray cells, and only escaping remained. I crossed the road. Dog crossed. I crossed again. Dog did likewise. I slowed. Dog advanced. I halted. Dog picked up pace. I retreated. Dog angered and cornered me—a tasty looking treat. I looked for cars, people, witnesses, rescue.
None.
Dog looked for witnesses.
None.
He licked his fangs.
Stay tuned for Part 2.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Leona Palmer Haag: Me, after a fantastic run and ready to write!Running:
My happy little village has no stoplight, pub, post office, grocery store or library. It’s nestled in a mountain crook with streams, deer, cougars, foxes, coyotes and bobcats. So far the cougars have eluded my sight. The deer have turned my yard into a super-highway. A coyote has high-tailed it down my driveway. Bobcats yowl at night. A fox keeps a den not far off and yaps after dark. Jogging usually takes me out of my happy little village, but I always return.
My happy little village has no stoplight, pub, post office, grocery store or library. It’s nestled in a mountain crook with streams, deer, cougars, foxes, coyotes and bobcats. So far the cougars have eluded my sight. The deer have turned my yard into a super-highway. A coyote has high-tailed it down my driveway. Bobcats yowl at night. A fox keeps a den not far off and yaps after dark. Jogging usually takes me out of my happy little village, but I always return.
Writing:
I write romance and suspense and stick with chick-lit and women’s fiction. I’ve dabbled with fantasy—all female.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Adjusting Running Plans & Adjusting a Novel (Editing)
Mother Nature dished out slush. I outsmarted her and postponed running until the sun broke free and zapped her handiwork. She retaliated—blasting me with heat. I adjusted my route and enjoyed the run.
My writing workshop instructor blasted my final word count, demanding I slash away thousands with sharp editing. Realizing I have no desire to face rejection from a prospective agent, I’ve begun hacking away. Result: my formerly perfect novel is taking a shortcut to improved vitality.
Personal aspirations: Open my mind. Observe new angles. Pay the price for success. Claim victory.
Until I arrive back on my doorstep, my run isn’t finished and possible detours, side roads and paths are possible. Until my novel is printed, no word, phrase, plot twist or character is spared from changes.
My writing workshop instructor blasted my final word count, demanding I slash away thousands with sharp editing. Realizing I have no desire to face rejection from a prospective agent, I’ve begun hacking away. Result: my formerly perfect novel is taking a shortcut to improved vitality.
Personal aspirations: Open my mind. Observe new angles. Pay the price for success. Claim victory.
Until I arrive back on my doorstep, my run isn’t finished and possible detours, side roads and paths are possible. Until my novel is printed, no word, phrase, plot twist or character is spared from changes.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Running & Writing Choreography—the Where it is and Why it’s There Part
I’ve gotta rant. But first, I’ve gotta tell you about this morning’s run: I ran up, down, past, beyond, around, near, over and back. Yup, I ran and I made it home afterward.
Now I’ll rant: Yesterday I finished reading a book packed with choreography—tons of over, under, through, by, near, on and around, but scant tension, emotion and depth. Here’s a sample (abbreviated): He walked over to the wall, leaned against it and slid down. She walked over and faced him. The other person walked over and faced them.
Three things caught me in the short paragraph: 1.) He felt tired, weary, helpless, and/or discouraged (he slid down the wall). 2.) She “walked over” (not significant—not to encourage the man or very original—she performed the exact same action he did, minus sliding down the wall). 3.) The other person did no better—he “walked over” and did nothing more. (Trust me, all three people “walked over” to the wall.)
Where the characters were placed and how they got there seemed to be the emphasis of the paragraph. Skip the fact that the man hadn’t slept for 48-hours and he and the woman were being held hostage, and the other person had a weapon in his hand. The choreography turned all three characters into mannequins without feelings, and the gun into a prop without any threat.
The following paragraphs never mentioned whether the man felt tired, weary, helpless or discouraged or if he felt some other emotion, so his sliding down the wall became insignificant—it only put his bum on the floor.
The book continued and so did the bland choreography. No one sprinted during the escape, no one grabbed anyone to pull them from a precipice, no one darted for cover and no one sank into the shadows—and yes, there were plenty of opportunities for all of that and much more. The characters never squirmed or schemed, but they did brush their teeth, notice the dust (which played no part in the story) and ate omelets.
Snoozing yet?
Back to my run: I skipped the dead deer route this morning—I won’t venture there again until after I check it out in my car with the windows rolled up. The days are getting warmer and I know what happens to carcasses in the sun—they offend the olfactory nerve. Instead—I jogged up an unexplored road after being promised a side road branched off fairly soon. It doesn’t. But it was worth it. I found a cute cottage to spark my imagination. And camels.
Now I’ve gotta ask: Which description of today’s run stood out? Emotions trump choreography. And so do camels in my little village.
Now I’ll rant: Yesterday I finished reading a book packed with choreography—tons of over, under, through, by, near, on and around, but scant tension, emotion and depth. Here’s a sample (abbreviated): He walked over to the wall, leaned against it and slid down. She walked over and faced him. The other person walked over and faced them.
Three things caught me in the short paragraph: 1.) He felt tired, weary, helpless, and/or discouraged (he slid down the wall). 2.) She “walked over” (not significant—not to encourage the man or very original—she performed the exact same action he did, minus sliding down the wall). 3.) The other person did no better—he “walked over” and did nothing more. (Trust me, all three people “walked over” to the wall.)
Where the characters were placed and how they got there seemed to be the emphasis of the paragraph. Skip the fact that the man hadn’t slept for 48-hours and he and the woman were being held hostage, and the other person had a weapon in his hand. The choreography turned all three characters into mannequins without feelings, and the gun into a prop without any threat.
The following paragraphs never mentioned whether the man felt tired, weary, helpless or discouraged or if he felt some other emotion, so his sliding down the wall became insignificant—it only put his bum on the floor.
The book continued and so did the bland choreography. No one sprinted during the escape, no one grabbed anyone to pull them from a precipice, no one darted for cover and no one sank into the shadows—and yes, there were plenty of opportunities for all of that and much more. The characters never squirmed or schemed, but they did brush their teeth, notice the dust (which played no part in the story) and ate omelets.
Snoozing yet?
Back to my run: I skipped the dead deer route this morning—I won’t venture there again until after I check it out in my car with the windows rolled up. The days are getting warmer and I know what happens to carcasses in the sun—they offend the olfactory nerve. Instead—I jogged up an unexplored road after being promised a side road branched off fairly soon. It doesn’t. But it was worth it. I found a cute cottage to spark my imagination. And camels.
Now I’ve gotta ask: Which description of today’s run stood out? Emotions trump choreography. And so do camels in my little village.
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