Ten Things I learned during Camp NaNoWriMo

This year, I signed up for Camp NaNoWriMo, and things did not go quite as expected. Promising to write 50 000 words plus in 30 days amidst the chaos of grade six graduation, two birthdays, father’s day, a wedding anniversary, a child with a concussion, various other ailments, appointments and traveling was a little bit insane. I didn’t complete the 50 000 words, but I did learn a lot about myself and my writing – so I thought I would share:

1. During a 15 minute writing sprint, I can write up to 900 usable words. If only I were always so productive.

2. Writing is more fun when you know someone, somewhere is writing with you. Thank you FB support groups!

 3. The Ninjas will attack. They will steal your words and hold them hostage for hours, days or even weeks. Having chocolate on hand will help keep them away.

 4. My muse is not only nocturnal; she also often deserts me in favour of playing with other muses and eating cake.

 5. Alcohol does not cure writer’s block, but it can help.

6. Coffee is an absolute necessity.

7. My friends will bring me chocolate if I whine enough on social networks. (And I LOVE them for it!)

8. Laundry does not do itself, and while husbands and children are very helpful, they aren’t adept at folding, sorting and putting away. (Then again, neither am I.)

9. Books do not write themselves. They take time, patience and the understanding that sometimes even the writer doesn’t get to control the direction characters choose to take.

10. Trying to write with four children and a dog underfoot all day is like trying to paint a fence in the rain. Everything gets messy and diluted.

I don’t know if I’ll attempt Camp NaNoWriMo again during the summer months, but I am glad I tried. I have 32 000 words of a fun novel of fluff and stuff that I should be able to finish over the course of the summer.

NaPoWriMo - April 17th

April is National Poetry Writing Month. In celebration of poets everywhere, and to encourage those who are just embarking on their literary journey, I will be posting poetry (not mine) each day for the month of April. Please take a look and enjoy this special art.

Diane Dickson

Bio:

Born in Yorkshire and grown up in Lancashire, England. I have spent many years living and working in the Middle East which was wonderful. Now, I am based partly in South West, France, in a lovely house in the middle of a forest and partly in Solihull in the UK. We have an apartment overlooking the Severn Trent Waterway, where I can frisby bread to the ducks right from my balcony. I am married with two wonderful children and two amazing grandsons who like my children's stories.

I have loved reading and writing ever since I can remember and have published some poetry in addition to my three children's books and now adult fiction.

Diane's Blog:  http://dianemdickson.wordpress.com/

TRUST

I may taunt your tender, gentle heart with ribbons of delight
I may drown your ever trusting soul in lies.
My thoughts are hid in darkness like the inky black of night
and you cannot find the truth behind my eyes

When you turn to me with loving and with arms outstretched in joy
I may meet you with a posture made of stone
and your pliant tender body will be just another toy.
When you need me you will find you are alone.

REBIRTH

Life buffets
love covets
time's all gone,
My needing
You stealing
Love's all wrong

Hearts seeking
Souls meeting
New Sweet song

ANOTHER DOVE

It may be there's another dove, a tiny spark of light,
a diamond glint of stardust in the darkness of the night..
It may be just a glimmer, a shadow on the moon,
a half remembered memory in the echo of a tune.
It's sometimes just a passing breeze on a calm and windless day
that strokes your cheek and gently wipes a bitter tear away.
A moment in a lifetime that takes away the fear,
when troubles drift on smoky wings and the way ahead is clear
A feeling, just a feeling, a phantom here and gone
but it brings you strength and hope and love and the will to carry on.

NaPoWriMo - April 16th

April is National Poetry Writing Month. In celebration of poets everywhere, and to encourage those who are just embarking on their literary journey, I will be posting poetry (not mine) each day for the month of April. Please take a look and enjoy this special art.

Leon Gower

Why I write:

I have no choice. If you look in a dictionary you will find words, each one has a story beside it.
When I wake up at 2am the stories in my mind have no word beside them.
I have to build a definition for that feeling.
Then, I place a title on top, really I'm not writing poetry, I'm building a personal dictionary of feelings not easily expressed.
Every person has key moments in their lives, times where no single word is appropriate. This is when our minds create new definitions. New poems.

Who am I?

 I grew up homeless and am self educated. I believe a person must take steps in life, wait for the next wave to wash them back. Then take another step. Never give up and never expect to be helped. I am a Palowa. Tasmanian Aboriginal Man. 

More of Leon Gower's work can be found on Authonomy.

NEW BORN

A child cries as it enters the world
and so begins a tail
it speaks of fun, love and war
a mystery for us all
it's the stuff of life your looking at
the reason why where here
to love to hate to laugh at fate
most of it's done by ear
there is no script or story line
make it if you can
you have to try to work it out
we'll help you if we can
but in the end you will learn
one lesson and thats all
i don't know what, it's not my lot
it may be something small
but as you grow, you will know
the one thing you can't see
is your own life, in all it's strife
and how it looks to me

A LEAF

Living moving loving growing
sole purpose is to die
never can we understand
you only want to be loved
kissed by light, poisoned by time
such a sad, gentle way.

NaPoWriMo - April 15th

April is National Poetry Writing Month. In celebration of poets everywhere, and to encourage those who are just embarking on their literary journey, I will be posting poetry (not mine) each day for the month of April. Please take a look and enjoy this special art.

G. M. Stroll

About me: I'm a 30 year old schizophrenic author, living in Montreal. I took up writing, at first, to give a gift to a sick friend of mine; dedicated to raising money for charitable research into her illness. I discovered that I loved the trade, and made a short hop over into fiction a couple years ago. I'm currently in the process of querying my first fiction novel, Trinity Divided. My inspiration is generally drawn from music, but equally every psychosis I've survived has left me with shattered dreams from which to piece together a story. Through all the mediums one can write, I'll always have a love - hate relationship with poetry. To me, poetry is a thinly veiled window into our deepest emotions.

G.M. Stroll can also be found on Authonomy.

Chasing dreams through the stars,

Drum beat hearts that once were ours.

Disjointed breaths through time and space,

A message, a bottle, a word would they lace.

From crow to dove to the heavens above,

All would know that the word was love.

In the evening's still, the sun sets all the same,

The only thing left to hold onto is your name.

Her eyes, in summer's majesty, glistened with a mildew sheen;

His eyes were frail, broken, bound and bereaved in the wood.

Her heart false, if only not to betray a pain at the seam;

His heart would spark like kindling, for through her it could.

Her eyes, in fall's decay, grew distant, solemn and stronger;

His eyes linger, in shades of rose,  yet still missing their mark.

Her heart withers where fostered hope trespassed no longer ;

His heart was both clumsy and fearful, yet naked, openly stark.

Her eyes, in winter's despondancy, reveals a mercy so soft;

His eyes contrast as erupts a miasma of purpose and defeat.

Her heart restrained to dreams from wence prayers waft;

His heart reaches out for those seeking in love's retreat.

The truth was in their estranged eyes, misplaced in time.

The hunger was in their unsure hearts, spoken in rhyme.

NaPoWriMo - April 8th

April is National Poetry Writing Month. In celebration of poets everywhere, and to encourage those who are just embarking on their literary journey, I will be posting poetry (not mine) each day for the month of April. Please take a look and enjoy this special art.

Crystal Stockwell

Crystal is a twenty-nine year old young lady who has Cerebral Palsy.  She has been in a wheelchair since the age of four. Although Crystal has had her share of challenges in life, she has always been a dreamer. Her biggest dream is having the chance to share her poetry with others.

Crystal began writing poetry as a freshman in High school. Through one simple school assignment, she  discovered her talent for writing. Her first poem, called Rainbow opened the door to that talent. Crystal credits the Lord for her gift of writing. She feels that without him, this book would not have been possible.

Crystals poetry is available through Lulu, Amazon, and on Amazon Kindle.

Inspiration From Above

Inspiration From Above is a five star read from new author Crystal Stockwell. It will capture your heart and touch your life. As the title says, I personally know for fact her inspiration for her poetry comes from above. Crystal is a quadriplegic and has been confined to a wheelchair since she was 4. Her mind and speech are clear and she graduated in a regular school with her peers. She is able to use the computer but cannot write, so when a poem comes to her mind, it comes all at once and someone either writes it down for her or she types it out on the computer with no forthought. I highly recommend this book for everyone and give it five stars *****

Reviewed by 

Nora Chipley Barteau 

Reviewers Helping Authors

Mama's Old Bible 

I remember mama's Old Bible oh so very well, 

Only time will tell. 

The Lord would take away my fear and strife, 

As those Bible stories came to life, 

Mama would read from the Bible every day and night, 

And she let me know that everything would be alright. 

She would tuck me into the bed and kiss me good night, 

Say a little prayer, and turn out the light. 

Jesus is here she would say, 

But tomorrow is another day. 

Mama's gone on, but her memory still lingers, 

Oh how I love mama's Old Bible.

The Treasure Chest 

The treasure chest sets in the corner 

Filled with memories from long ago. 

Every year mama added a memory to put away, 

Each one she held so dear. 

As I open it to look inside, 

A world full of history I happen to find. 

As I look upon memories past, 

I am reminded of how time slips away. 

Mama's wedding dress from 1942, 

Daddy's purple heart from Vietnam, 

Grandpa's old red Bible 

He loved so well, 

Grandma's black and white pictures, 

Oh what a story they tell. 

 

This chest is more than just a memory box, 

It's a family heirloom. 

This chest holds what mom loved best. 

May God bless mama's treasure chest.

 Time 

As I look into the mirror, 

I reflect on years past. 

I remember my younger days, 

How quickly time has flown. 

 

With every line and wrinkle, 

I am reminded of the Godly wisdom I have been given. 

The mirror reminds me that my days are few, 

That time waits for no one. 

My withered hands, my silver hair, 

Tell me time passes quickly. 

With only memories of years gone by, 

I reflect on the life I've lived. 

As I prepare to take my final breath, 

I leave a Godly legacy. 

The lesson is this, 

Make use of your time here. 

Time passes quickly, 

Time waits for no one.

NaPoWriMo - April 6th

April is National Poetry Writing Month. In celebration of poets everywhere, and to encourage those who are just embarking on their literary journey, I will be posting poetry (not mine) each day for the month of April. Please take a look and enjoy this special art.

Robyn Brown

I am a mother of four, and a grand mother of five. I live in Tasmania Australia and have always loved to write and rhyme. I opened the first poets club in Devonport Tasmania, was great to hear and watch other poets recite there literary art. I have heard on the grapevine that the poets club is no longer open, such a shame. Writing for me has become a helpful tool, where i become the watcher of my own emotions as i create the answers to many issues.

Have you ever woke up and heard a bump in the night...what was that noise?
or seen something out of the corner of your eye?
Many poems are formed from things 'unseen' or things 'not talked about'.
And many are just for fun... so enjoy...:)

Child's Play!

Children play a deadly game of choosing who is boss
Always one that’s left behind, becoming very cross
Shadows stayed and feasted as the day came to an end
Angry thoughts vibrate the host as pay-back time descends
Toss and turn in nightmares grasp, playing sucker to the past
Empty tombs the rich and famous, fields of flowers drooping fast
Manifests a burden of redemption, shown again on close inspection
Within this life of introspection…too communicate a fear
And as the host awakens everything becomes quiet clear

Walking quickly past the playground focused on a waking dream
Sees his friends pick on another, playing boss, there is no team
Demands and orders fill the air above a rising plea
Children stare and slow there pace as the wind uproots a tree
All heads turn towards the boss child to see what he would do
As the wind changed its direction he thought that he would spew
Help the young, a voice commanded, help the small, the voice rang clear
They leave the boss to count his losses as the wind draws very near
Outstretched hand upon a shoulder bended knee upon the ground
A waking dream remembered of when one was lost and then was found
-RB

Cobble Stone Courts

Night after night,
dream after dream.
I go to a place,
that I’ve never been.

How did I get here,
where is this place?
A spark of a memory,
a familiar face.

All feels correct,
a heart-felt embrace.
A feeling of belonging,
within this dreams space.

I notice a dwelling,
that I have seen before.
I know that I am dreaming,
yet see and sense no flaw.

Cobble stone courts,
seats made of stone.
dwellings upon dwellings,
is what I was shown.

On closer inspection,
i spied a small stream.
And as soon as I did,
I awoke from my dream.

Night after night,
dream after dream.
I go to a place,
that I’ve never been.-RB

www.booksie.com/willow brook

NaPoWriMo - April 5th

April is National Poetry Writing Month. In celebration of poets everywhere, and to encourage those who are just embarking on their literary journey, I will be posting poetry (not mine) each day for the month of April. Please take a look and enjoy this special art.

Robert Heath 

E-mail: contact@carpe-somnium.com
Website: http://www.carpe-somnium.com
Twitter: @RobHeath1969
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100003492794082

What can I say; this bit is harder to write than the poems themselves!!

Forty something project manager in the engineering sector by day and in the very early hours, before work, a dream of being a writer. Avid reader. Keen Allotment grower. Proud family man. Happy. Living with my long term partner. Two great kids.

I am a recovered heroin addict who lost a good portion of his twenties to drugs. Having redeemed myself somewhat I am now in the position of being happy enough to try again for the only personnel dream I have ever had, that of being a writer.

As a man I am massively influenced by my late father, who taught me how to read and therefore how to learn, and my partner and our children, who taught me how to be free.

As a fiction writer and a poet I am influenced by the greats as I see them – Kafka, Dickens, Bret Easton Ellis, Hubert Selby, Cormack McCarthy, William Faulkner, William Burroughs, Phillip Larkin, W H Auden, Adrian Mitchell, Brian Patten, Roger McGough and myriad more – people who could paint the inside of your mind with words. I like to think in some small way, I am following in their footsteps, or at least trying to.

I have to date won an online short story competition and had several pieces of poetry published in various magazines. As well as posting my debut novel on Authonomy which is Harper Collins online slush-pile.

For me poetry represents freedom to explore and explain – Poetry is distilled prose, the frozen second immortalised in a handful of words whose power lies in their form and construction as well as their given meaning.

Poetry is the very heart of the writer – the mirror to the inner self.

TRANSITION

When did he change?
I mean my father – he went from being to
Less
Asleep, adrift without fetter.
Face as always, kindly and ocean deep.
Just the ministrations of white coats
And shushing coos – he was never going to get better
Console yourself thus
Swaddled in the finite
The lapping tide of the gone.
I had a real thirst coming on
It was so easy just to drink
To sink.
To vacillate
To aggregate
Scream or worse - just explode.
I punched a mirror so hard in that hospital
Glass-smash
explode.
My break fixable – apply plaster and a salve to his mind.
It’s the drink talking – try not to be unkind.
And I remember saying stop
I demand to know the exact moment when my father was gone
I want the transition point – not what went wrong.
I want to stand with him in that immortal second
And hold him and say goodbye
He died before I got there – why
Why could he not just wait –
So I don’t have to
Aggregate
Sink
Vacillate
Scream or worse just explode
All I wanted, was just to be told that there was a cusp,
A cleave point
a moment
When your feet are planted on disparate land
I need to recognise that time, so my children can understand
That I need them to be where I was not
By my side
in that moment
when I stop.

BLUEBELL

Little April flower.
Head bowed as if in mourning
Blush upwards amid the jut and strut of trunk and branch
Rain slapped yet upright still
Bloom in clutter-clumps
Leaves cast down as if to announce
your imperious blue.
Low scented but redolent all the same
Speaks new words yearly
Only to be lost
Like the wink of a young girls eye
But come again
In cycles older than pock-shot hills
Your emergence is the breath of the forest.

NaPoWriMo - April 4th

April is National Poetry Writing Month. In celebration of poets everywhere, and to encourage those who are just embarking on their literary journey, I will be posting poetry (not mine) each day for the month of April. Please take a look and enjoy this special art.

Gordon Kuhn

Bio:

Gordon Kuhn resides in Florida with his wonderful wife and best friend: Jan. He is a disabled Vietnam veteran who began writing while in the United States Marine Corps. He has had humorous articles published in professional business valuation/accounting journals. His poetry has been published on several internet sites, in a literary magazine that is published quarterly by the Peppertree Press in Sarasota, FL, featured in You Tube videos, and in blogs in the United States and in England. More of Gordon's poetry can be found on his blog: Gordon Writes. 

PURPLE NIGHTS 

March 6, 2012 

Copyright 2012 by Gordon Kuhn 

All rights reserved. 

She sat alone in the cool darkness,
alone on a leather bench seat,
in a tavern where she used to meet
a chosen, special friend.
That was after the beginning, and before the end,
before the birth of the lonely starkness
before the sudden chilling darkness.
Now … purple nights dominate the day
for her love had failed to stay,
but left her alone in the silent darkness.
Alone with the cold and lonely starkness
of purple nights left to dominate the day.

BURNING EMBERS 

11/28/2011 

Copyright 2011 Gordon Kuhn 

Poet in the Rain Productions 

My mind is seduced. My heart is bursting.
The rush of words is tearing at my soul.
The sound of whispered secrets in my ears
Drives me parched and thirsting
Surrounded by joys, surrounded by fears,
Naked, lost in a rapture so overpowering, so over towering
Their strength of attack is showering me with an essence so grand
I cannot maintain a hold on the reality that surrounds this fragile place where I stand
How can I explain for I am swept away and swirled into the torrent
So caught up in the whirlpool ecstasy of the moment with a special warrant
Allowing me direct access to the thrill of hearing music in poetry
The flood where I cannot drown but where I feel so strangely inclined
To stand with outstretched arms in what others would see as emptiness
But for my vision I see all and to let my body launch my soul
Into the facing, driving of the onslaught of the unseen wind
And to step into space embraced by the soft tenderness of the music
While staggered by the violence of the tones hammering at my very person
Enraptured by the musical qualities so well defined
That lift and caress, and allow me to float so confined
While falsely struggling to be free of such charm
Never fearing any invisible suggestion of harm
That wraps me in an invisible cloak of steel entwined.
The very rapture that tears like an orchestra of sounds at my heart and my mind,
The rush, the words, the heights and lows of sound,
All working and spinning me in a whirl of wonderment around
And amid all this my mind is seduced and my heart is bursting.
Poetry swarms through my thoughts, my soul is overwhelmed and in ecstasy
Caught up in the symphonic orchestration that I alone can hear and feel
As the movements cause me to float higher
In the mists that surround me until like a fire
I lay spent for that glorious flame has consumed all there is to consume
And all that remains are a few glowing embers left to softly light the still and empty room 

Emerging from NaNo Land

I’m coming out of NaNo Land in a bit of a haze, knowing there’s still much to do, but happy with my accomplishment. November was National Novel Writing Month, during which time thousands of authors sat glued to their computers, pounding away on the keyboard aiming for a word count of 50 000. This meant a target of approximately 1600 words a day. Broken down, it doesn’t seem like all that much.

Except – you have to account for all the small stuff that happens in between. This month seems to have been one trial after another. Between sick kids, hockey tournaments, family obligations and the everyday chaos that follows a family of six, I barely found time to write. The end result was me frantically scrambling to write over 9000 words on the final day of November.

Did I succeed? Of course I did! So now, I have a not-so-shiny new novel to edit, explore, shape and tweak until it becomes the work of art it is meant to be. It’s a fantasy book geared towards children aged ten to fourteen, depending on their reading levels and interests. My goal was to create an engaging story for mature readers, while implementing challenging language and appropriate content. Not an easy task for someone who has been focusing on Women’s Literature.

Of the three books I have written, this one was probably the most difficult, as I stepped out of my comfort zone, tried something new, and focused my energy on a much younger audience. Currently, the very rough draft is in the hands of a couple age-appropriate beta readers. Here’s hoping they enjoy this draft as much as I enjoyed the challenge of writing it.