My Writing Process

Carla Stockton asked me to participate in this chain gang blog hop.

http://carlastockton.me/2014/06/23/my-writing-process-blog-tour/

1)What am I working on?

Novel in progress working title: Eco Terrorist

Natalie Clark retires from MI5 during the Great Drought. Seeking a life far away from her job as an Analytic Soothsayer she buys a  ranch in rural Wyoming. Two men will pull her back to her old life. One wants to poison the Ogallaha Aquifer (all the remaining water in the West and Midwest). The other desires to control it all. Can she stop them?

Currently the book is 188998 words. I’m revising. Preparations are underway to send to my editor. Revision for me is on a paper printed copy. I read each word aloud. My goal is to edit ten pages a day.

2) How does my work differ from others of its genre?

I’m a member of International Thriller Writers. The underlying structure of my novels are “thriller”; however they are literary. I ghostwrote a few thrillers for someone else first.

I’m not following the typical format. My hero is heartbroken. There are two villains. Readers may relate to the bad guys. Both are fathers, both have built lives for their families. However the process in which they achieved their goals is dead wrong. The setting is the Midwest /West after climate change has left most with no resources for water. My work has been called “transgressional, dark, poetic, and gothic.” This story is written in four different voices. Each has their own version of the story within the tale. Mise en abyne in which the French would look for clues in each voice.

Thriller genre seems at odds with literary fiction and poetic structure. In this novel there are secrets, song bird calls and bits of tornadoes. Someone else may categorize the book as apocalyptic.

3) Why do I write what I do?

I have a million stories to share. I hope to make a reader think. I’m writing about this time from my spot on the planet. My poetry, short stories and novels aren’t easy reads but they are true.

I write or I must surrender to the ashes.

4) How does your writing process work?

To write a novel:

I start with drawings, photographs and my moleskin notepad. This year I used instagram as a journal to keep ideas flowing.

First I use a white board. It is four feet by six feet. The story is mapped on the board as a graph.

Next, I write every day. The Chapters are not numbered. They may be shuffled around like cards later. Sometimes I begin with the middle of the narrative. I have a full time job and am a single Mom besides writing.

I am disciplined. Every morning at 5:25 A. M. I’m working on our kitchen table. Weekday evenings I will put in two more hours. I set word count goals. Each day that I achieve the goal I reward myself by going for a hike or working in the garden for an hour.

Once the first draft is completed I print the novel. At this point I will write a short story or poetry to give the draft a rest for a couple weeks.

I am creative in my daily life. Come over for dinner. You will be entertained.

Revisions begin: this part is slow. When I wrote I often will put two or three words to express an idea in a sentence. I’m not doing spell check or grammar check. I read aloud. Muddling over the exact word choice, uncovering the tool that clearly expresses not just the meaning of the sentence but the sound and rhythm I find my way.

Second edit is to take all the handwritten notes on the hard copy and put them back into the computer.

Total process takes a year or more.

I purchased a couple writing programs (Final Draft, Story lit, White smoke, Story book) none make it easy. This is a long process. My editor uses one then I will finish with whatever he is using.

Word does some tricks with auto saving the wrong copy. In long form at this point you better be labeling each copy and dating it. Otherwise you may have to go back and rework. Ugh.

After editor makes his notes I will share with a couple beta readers.

I lost both mine. My mom had a stroke, then open heart surgery. She’s no longer up for the task, but I will give her a printed copy this summer to attempt the red pen. Any volunteers? Prizes, vacations and wine promised for certain.

Next up:

Judy Serrano graduated from Texas A and M University, Commerce with a BA in English. She is a member of Romance Writers of America and Dallas Area Romance Authors. She spends her days writing on her laptop and living in her imagination, when she can steal a private moment. She is the author of "Easter's Lilly," "Brother Number Three," "Relatively Close" and "Memoirs of a Mobster."

Judy currently resides in Texas with her husband, four boys and five dogs. She is also a singer/songwriter in her spare time.

Blog:  http://www.Judyserrano.com

Ewa Zwonarz is a Polish-American writer, author of the soon to be released paranormal young adult novel “Moonchild.” She is a recipient of several awards in journalism and film production, a published poet and an author of a blog. She graduated Valedictorian with a Bachelor’s Degree in Mass Communications and works as a Strategic Analyst for a Silicon Valley start up. When she is not working, Ewa is traveling the world collecting morsels of inspiration for her future projects.

Link :  www.dare2begin.com

DAVID B LENTZ

Was born in Woburn, Massachusetts, David B. Lentz graduated from Bates College and has published six novels: "For the Beauty of the Earth", "Bloomsday: The Bostoniad", "AmericA, Inc.: A Novel in Stream of Voice", "Bourbon Street", "The Day Trader" and "The Silver King." In addition, he has published two stage plays, "Bloomsday" and "AmericA, Inc.", as well as a volume of poetry, "Old Greenwich Odes." He introduced a new model of critical literary theory for reviewing novels in his "Novel Criticism." Selected excerpts from his collection of literary works among his novels, stage plays and poetry are available in "Essential Lentz." He is a member of the Center for Fiction in New York, the Royal Society of Literature in London, the Academy of American Poets, and the Connecticut Authors and Publishers Association. He has served Bates College as an Alumnus-in-Admissions (18 years), Stamford-Greenwich Literacy Volunteers of America, Midnight Run for New York City Homeless, Healing the Children Northeast, Inc. (Board), St. Baldricks Foundation for Children's Cancer Research and as a Volunteer in St. Paul's Chapel at Ground Zero. Lentz has lived in the Garden District of New Orleans, Boston's Back Bay, Houston, Philadelphia's Main Line and Greenwich, Connecticut.

link to his blog: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog_posts/5884341-us-senator-chris-murphy-responds-to-being-and-homelessness-by-john-sib 

 

 

 

Caroline Gerardo

http://www.amazon.com/Toxic-Assets-Bank-Caroline-Gerardo-ebook/dp/B004RCLZXI/ref=la_B004PHVP1C_1_1_title_1_kin?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1404078286&sr=1-1

http://www.amazon.com/Lucky-Boy-Caroline-Gerardo-ebook/dp/B0064FOCZO/ref=la_B004PHVP1C_1_2_title_0_main?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1404078325&sr=1-2

My Daily journal here: http://instagram.com/carolinegerardo/

Honey's Days Under a Canopy of Sunflowers

I finally heard back from the Vet about Honey our Golden Retriever. She will be fifteen tomorrow, she has been healthy, loving, fast, funny and wonderful until this past July. Her ear infections won’t cure, the pads of her feet seem to bother her so much that she stopped taking her swim in the pool and won’t go in the ocean excepting for the very soft foamy waves. This is a dog that swam with the surfers and rode waves with us until we called her to stop. The last two days she doesn’t want to eat or move around.

Carson had a Lacrosse camp at Whittier College all day in the heat, and I couldn’t take her into 102 degree temperature so I had a couple different people check on her at home. She sun bathed in the morning and enjoyed her routine of watching the hummingbirds and dragonflies hover over the pool but come afternoon she didn’t go into her favorite spot among the Colossal sunflowers. Honey didn’t move all day from the kitchen floor where my laptop is and where she keeps me company to write.

I felt this boulder in my chest calling to check on her, I redialed the Vet’s exchange in hopes he would call in some prescription. Last visit he spoke of quality of life. I’m bringing her in tomorrow, going to ask for pain medicine, something to perk her appetite and a miracle. Are you connected with your pets? I am closer with my children, but our dogs offer unconditional love and joy. If you ever knew or have a Golden Retriever, you know what a funny breed they are. They talk and make noises but are terrible watch dogs. They are afraid of lightening and all they want is to be a nanny to your children and make certain everyone is comforted.

Honey knew when I was sick with chemotherapy, she saw us survive the fire, and she is still diligent in watching for bunnies who steal my flowers and produce. She no longer chases them but they are afraid of the big amber colored dog who once guarded her garden.

I’m home now after a fun day at Carson’s Lacrosse Camp, gave her a piece of cheese with her pills. Then an extra pieces of Trader Joe’s sliced turkey because I know it is yummy. She shook her head and smiled that big dog one but her eyes are cloudy.

My son Carson said tonight, “Mom, you say that when you are ready to die, you will swim out in the ocean to some far away buoy to avoid being a burden--”

I stop him mid-sentence, “No, as much as Honey loves the ocean, Green River or the lake she would panic and be afraid. I don’t ever want any of you to be afraid.”

He nods, I feel a tear in my eye, and blot it off with my shirt. He’s sixteen and life and death are fast as the wings of a dragonfly. I put my hand on Honey’s head so she won’t have to get up to be with us for a group hug. Then we get down on the floor and thank her for being a beautiful girl. Her tail still has some thump in it.

Sunflowers the size of a basketball player

I think this is what Honey sees when she sleeps under the sunflowers, a big happy face full of seeds of promise for next year.

White Not Blue

"White Not Blue"

for iiChallenge 1/28/2012 written in 40 minutes

June moved to California with Albert, her husband, to chase after another job.

“This one in the aircraft plant-”

“Do we have to go?”

“This gig is better than house painting, leak detection or pest control.”

June spends the ten grand from Pappa’s estate to invest in the dream in California.

“It seems like a good idea at the time.”

Between the morning job as a crossing guard and the night work at the nursing home, June has time to make meals for the children because Albert is gone. Albert went off on a new wanderlust.

June works at Aging Fountains home in Huntington Beach. When she applied for the position, she lied (just a little white one) marking that she had a Certified Nurse Assistant degree when in fact she had not taken any classes. June knows how to push an I.V., administer diabetes tests and check blood pressure. Skills she acquired caring for her father back in Crystal Springs. She misses the lazy evenings on the porch before Pappa died.

It is almost Christmas. California does not offer a season change; there is no blanket of snow. The lights in the lobby of the nursing home are the only sign of the season. Pine trees decorate the front of the apartment complex next to Aging Fountains. June takes it upon herself to cut stacks of the sappy needles to decorate the bare rooms at the nursing home. June parks her Chevy with the branches and the left over boxes of handmade tree ornaments from Mississippi near the service entrance of the building. The confier resin odors swell in the rear entry, blocking that of urine.

The last room in the hall is occupied by what looks to be a shriveled bobolink. In the electric hospital bed rests a lined buff body, dangling grey legs and piercing blue eyes.

They tell June, “John O’Grady in that room never speaks.”

“But he sits up?”

“That bird’s been in some kind of coma since 1977.”

“Can a person live that long in bed?”

“It’s the strangest thing. He can eat when spoon fed.”

“Anyone visit Mr. O’Grady?”

“Never, just gets a monthly check from John O’Grady signed by himself on the back  for $5000.”

“What does the home do with the money?”

“They sign it over and pay for his rent, and keep the rest in the slush fund.”

In her calico scrubs with the garnet rhinestone pin June turns the television on in John’s room to a station playing, “I’ll Have a Blue Christmas,” sung by Elvis Presley. June hums as she tapes the branches on John's bulletin board. She push pins some on the windowsill. Then June allocates ornaments from the box choosing the crystal angel to place in the center. Her back is to Mr. O’Grady as she looks up at the North Star to hide the tears in her eyes. June thinks of family back home.

Mr. O’Grady starts to sing, “And when that blue heartache starts hurtin'. You'll be doin' all right, with your Christmas of white, But I'll have a blue, blue Christmas.”

“Mr. Presley is that really you?” June says startled.

The man with the cornflower eyes is silent. June tucks bleached covers around him kissing his forehead goodnight.


***


“I'd rather go on hearing your lies, than to go on living without you.”

Elvis Presley

Prompt from

http://www.runningforautism.com/

Tell a story that Ellis is in fact not dead from Kristen Doyle

Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, KristenDoyle challenged me with "Tell a story that Elvis is in fact not dead" and I challenged ChaosMandywith "Tell me about caring for your mother who had a stroke".



Notes:

Bobolinks are a native Mississippi lark like bird that eats insects and grains and has a long undulating flight.

The use of John O'Grady's name is fictional use and no reference to any real person.

Copyrights 2012 caroline gerardo for all short story and photographs reserved



I incorporated a bit of my own prompt to make it harder. I also used the prompt idea I gave to Chaos Mandy about caring for someone with a stroke. I haven't been a part of your group as much as I enjoy, busy finishing my next book. Please tell me what you think.

Diagram of Interaction, Teenage Venn

Diagram of Interaction

by

Caroline Gerardo

©copyright all rights reserved

Included in Bare Hands Poetry Magazine Issue III January 2011
link http://barehandspoetrythree.tumblr.com/

Burned Venn Diagram by Caroline Gerardo copyright 2011

A Venn Diagram Burned on the Ends

“Call me Lauren now,” the fourteen year old removes the clips of blonde extensions in her scalp.

“What is wrong with Winny?” Jenna moves her dry curls splayed off her sequin thin neck. Jenna inspects her split ends.

“Tyler says my name, Winnifred, is ugly,” Lauren says as if Tyler is some demigod creator of the cosmos. Lauren tucks her shirt over her round belly, self consciously sitting her bottom square against the bathroom door. The girls legs cross tangle on the grid of tile floor.

“How many minutes is it since you peed on the EPT?” Jenna asks.

“You’re supposed to be counting on your phone Jenna.”

“Two minutes, is there a cross or a line? You look-” Jenna says.

“Nothing yet-”

Jenna does not reveal she too has kissed Tyler. Not with jealous arrows, merely proximity and raspberry flavored vodka, Popov, the cheapest brand propelled the particulate to connect. It went down hot as the desert after a brush fire.

Tyler said, “All the pigs get songs and the chickens aren’t allowed to squeal.” Tyler has relationships organized on flow charts. He believes himself a Greek song dividing human contact into labels for which they are not. He uses the Google website to arrange Venn Diagrams of his female friends.

Lauren dreams of being a pop singer even though she ditches choir. She cups her tongue to allow sweet caramel tones, her diaphragm ringing the cello strings of her core, “Time is up.”

“It’s negative,” Jenna holds the white plastic bar between them, “Text him.”

Lauren types on the cracked iphone keyboard unaware her number has been blocked.

Soldier Home For Christmas

Dear John,


The President announced the troops come home from Iraq. I wonder, will you come off the plane last? Will you be wearing your ACU (the service uniform holds that dusty smell of charcoal) when you ship home? Our son will want to keep that jacket with the letters of your name on the chest. I know it is common enough and we might be able to buy one with SMITH on it at the army surplus, but he will want yours.

In your last letter you wrote about how every night the image of Smith Park’s oak trees and ivy pathways kept your mind green. The sounds of leaves touching in the wind are like karaoke vocalizing the lyrics we listened to on that oldies station. It is December now, they will play Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas on the car radio. I sing along loud and joyful. I keep putting antifreeze into the radiator just as you told me, but the Jeep is running cold.

Things here at home will be strange when you return. I did not have the heart to tell you in my letters that our park is gone.  The city redeveloped the area into something commercial. What remains is a little triangle between busy streets in the neighborhood. They let the grass turn brown. The sign remains steadfast, as I have waited for you my love. It is in front of the graveyard where I hope to finally put you to rest, we will all be together. War has been a troubling enemy I could not touch or understand but knowing it is over will make us start to heal.

Merry Christmas to All With Love,




Copyright © Caroline Gerardo 2011

Organize your XXXX in Word Files

Organize the Outhouse of my Mind

In a fuddle this morning. Need to clean out, throw away and start new.
 "If a thing can be done adequately by means of one, it is superfluous to do it by means of several; for we observe that nature does not employ two instruments [if] one suffices." Thomas Aquinas





Finished the first draft of next novel, working title Eco Terrorist. I might call her Soothsayer, but that leads to another story further taking me off point. I am giving the book a rest for a week. Working on short fiction that needs polishing after a cold trip. Organizing and planning back at home today. The wind rocked the house something wild last night. Electric charges from the dry ions are irritating my muse. My sweet gum trees in the front in painted blaze have thrown their souls all over the canyon.  One mess of crimson, rust and magenta is in the bottom of my pool and the gutters towards the ocean.

After travelling this week to Canada I want to thank again all the wonderful people who were supportive and amazing open, giving, and participated in the performances. Poetry is alive and well. I met college students, teens, bikers, cowboys, and truck drivers who are now part of my family.

Returning to my messy mind, I ask those Santa Ana winds for solutions. Does anyone else have this stupid problem? I save a file in Word and give it a title, next I add a numerical date, but other copies of the same file duplicate as a) Backup of xyz title  and b)xyz title with similar date and c) I might have a word doc a worddocx an HTML and some other copies of the same file. I attempted to merge these ten pieces but it is frustrating to the point of crazy making. There must be a better system to organize my writing.

I want to store all the poetry and flash pieces in some easy to recall order.
There are about two hundred short stories and flash fiction pieces unpublished that I need to edit down and keep clean copies.
I also have hundreds of film clips and thousands of photographs.
I think I need a personal secretary who can live inside my computer and just talk to me when I sleep.

Time for bleach, lists, throwing away a bunch of junk and general cleanup.  I will back up all the creations into folders and put them on a seperate hard drive to open one at a time. Simplfy the work into pieces to cut copy and paste.

The photograph above is a working outhouse, I do not have one at the Wyoming ranch, but  feels like my mind today. I spare you the word (xrap) in the title.