See how easy it is?

So, due to lack of feedback of any kind from my faithful readers, I've been thinking of abandoning the writing of Shadows Gather. Which is kind odd because writing it has been the most fun I've had in ages at the keyboard. It feels very dangerous and exciting since I never know where it is all going. I didn't even know the nightclub's name was going to be Shadows Gather until it came out of my fingers. I just picked the name for the novel cause it is some thing I like to do, sit in the twilight with a glass of wine or a martini and just watch the shadows gather across the landscape, or city scape or sea scape, that last is my favorite. However it is taking up more brain real estate than it has any right to. I'm thinking I might contact one of the Dames at Sea workshop leaders and get a bit of writing coaching. Kind of therapy for my inner writer to try and figure out how to better focus on finishing the pieces that could actually pay for themselves and stop haring off every time a shiny new story catches my eye.

I did finally receive some positive feedback on the novel thing from the Earl of Scallion, who in fact possesses an opinion that is super important to me. It was only a one line email "Enjoying the novel..." and it was signed with "Butterfly kisses". So Shadows Gather will live another day. See how easy it is to give encouragement to an artist and how easy it is for that artist to wander away from something that might be something? Maybe just a thought for all you folks to think about a small word of encouragement. Don't take for granted that the favorite artist in your life knows your high opinion of their work. It's like saying "I love you." - once is never enough.

Shadows Gather - Chapter 1, Part 4

Shadows Gather

Chapter 1, Part 4

Copywrite 2009, Carolynne Ciceri

“Michael. Tell me who has been talking to you about me? Answer me true!” there, I invoked the key obedience phrase, it’ll scare him, but I really need to know who’s been messing with his head. That’s entirely my prerogative thanks. “St-tst-tst” he’s choking trying to tell me the name but someone, it appears, has put a mind block on him. If I don’t do something fast he’ll choke to death trying to speak my enemy’s name. “Ereshkigal!” I shout out the name of the ancient Sumerian goddess of the underworld and he collapses into a dead faint. “Fuck!” Now I am mad. I had to burn a perfectly good safe word there. The good news is that he’s stopped choking. The rest of the news is bad, bad and bad. Not least of which is the fact that he’s slumped half on me, half off, and in trying to lower him to the floor without banging his head on my workbench the shattered bone and ground meat that currently makes up my left leg starts screaming agony like all the smoke alarms in hell.

Scrabbling through the cut herbs and metaphysical apparatus on the workbench I come up with a cell phone and bottle of Percoset. Tough-bitch multi-tasker that I am, I manage to dry swallow two pills and hit the speed dial during the time it takes for three hot tears of pain to splash onto the spill from a tiny vial of dried Dragon’s Blood. I deeply inhale the puffs of resulting smoke. Now man, that is some good shit. I can see my reflection in the mirror over the bench and my eyes flash that gorgeous red that promises a world of pain to Stanislav, whenever I catch up to him that piece of Gorgon vomit. I’m pretty sure the St-tsts-stts that Mica was trying to choke out before I pulled the plug on his consciousness was Stanislav’s name – only one of my current enemies with that particular consonant configuration.

The interminable ringing in my ear finally ends with Tequila’s rasp, “Shadows Gather, watering hole to the Unholy and the Undead. Whatchawant?” “Get up here. Now.” Hmm, sounds like my rasp is finally a match for hers. I try and put the phone down but no. Her tirade pulls it back to my ear. “Irene? That you? You got a lotta damn nerve commanding me to your presence. I may run this den of depravity for you but that don’t mean I’m your damn slave! Your Royal nothingness! Get up yourself!” she pauses for breath and I know from experience that she’s working herself up to a full on hissy fit so its dive in now or forget it. Tequila is one long tall tranny that can out-howl any of the local were-pack leaders. Not kidding. Won 2 large on her last Halloween. “Tequila! I need your help putting Mica to bed.” There. That shut her up. All I can hear now are the sounds of the bar, techno music blaring. I hate techno night. “I need help undressing him.” I add, somewhat unnecessarily. “I’ll be right there.” She answers. Hah, I bet she will. I’m not sure it’s the 22 year-old underwear model side of him or the sometime construction worker from the bad part of town that she likes best, but I guess I shouldn’t talk. Hard to know if I’d a taken him in if he were ugly. I’m kinda shallow that way.

And now the phone does go down and a half full bottle of Jack Daniels takes its place. I take a long pull and watch as the rainbows from the chandeliers reflect in the bottle glass. Pretty. Like baby boy here. Pretty. I can hear my heavy breath and the swish of the bourbon. Not much else, even though the bar that Tequila runs for me - “Shadows Gather” - takes up the first floor of this warehouse, given the nature of my work and my proclivity for solitude you can bet your ass that a lot of profits have gone into soundproofing over the years. So, I wait in the silence, looking at my pretty things and wondering if there will still be any bourbon in the bottle when Tequila arrives. Cause things aren’t so quiet inside my head now as that Techno Music starts up in my shattered leg and the throb of pain also known as the beat tries to pull me down into its madness. Nope. Another swig of bourbon and a dab of that dried Dragon Blood on my gums and I’m good thanks, go ask someone else to dance. Besides at the very least, I got me a pretty boy to rescue and a bad guy to punish, gotta stay frosty, there’s work to be done.

Shadows Gather, Chapter 1, Part 3

Shadows Gather

Chapter 1, Part 3

Copywrite 2009, Carolynne Ciceri

Come on baby, just a little bit more. I nudge my chair back just a smidge. “Quit moving!” Michael barks. The gun barrel and his attention snap back to my face. No worries, a beam of light now hits the large aquamarine ring on my right hand, and that’s gonna be all I need. “Sorry,” which I in fact am. “Being held at gunpoint makes me a bit nervous,” which in fact, it does. Not that you could tell from the deep, relaxed tone of my voice. I fiddle with the ring and a bead of blue light flicks across his eyes. “I trusted you. Trusted you with everything.” His voice fades away into a yawn and his eyes blink, suddenly sleepy. “I know you did baby. I know. And I’ve tried to do right by you, didn’t I take you in, teach you things, make you safe?” I twitch the ring again and manage to get a slow nod. “You’re safe now. Safe with me. You can put the gun down now. You’re safe.” More sleepy nodding and the gun-hand does in fact drop to his side.

You know, I had a real sharp twinge in my conscience when I first implanted that hypnotic suggestion, keying it to a ring the color of my eyes. To be specific both ring and eyes are the color of the Adriatic Sea just off Venice. And no, they aren’t colored contact lens, thanks for asking. But I digress. I thought the hypnotic implant was maybe a bit too manipulative, even for me. But given the circumstances of our first meeting and my immediate suspicions about his true nature and of course the whole threatening my life thing just now, kinda glad I stomped that little angel voice into an unpleasant squishy spot on the pavement.

“Mica, baby” I pitch my voice into as warm a caress as I possibly can, “Seems like you’ve been partying hard with some very nasty people. Who’ve you been a bad boy with?” “Nobody. Not a bad boy.” Its mostly a sleepy slur but still too much push back for me. “Well it sure ain’t just booze honey. Someone give you some pills? Some kinda blow? You can tell me baby, you’re safe now.” Michael shakes his head heavily, “Nope. You’ll be mad.” Damn straight I will, but you won’t have to deal with that till you’re stone cold sober and nursing a headache the size of St. Louis. I try again, “Mica, sweetheart, somebody told you some nasty things about me, right? Who was it?” “Like it when you call me sweetheart Reinee. It’s nice.” Damn, he shouldn’t be able to dodge my question like that, I sure did a piss poor psychic hack job on him. Crap, serves me right for going soft on a pretty face.

When you let the pen go where it will

The exercise was to set the timer and spend ten minutes writing a list of the things I want. So I did. I include this here as an example of what can happen when you heed the teacher’s advice and let the pen take you where it wants to go. I left out the cheese, charcoal and fried chicken, but then the timer did cut me off.

Reproduced unedited. Day 4 Homework - Dames at Sea Writer's Workshop

The Wanting

I want music from the morning

I want respect from my mother

I want worship from my book club

I want adoration from my muse

I want health from joy

I want joy from every day

I want healing from my guitar

I want strength from my heart

I want nimbleness from my feet

I want money from the industry

I want a vineyard in Bordeaux from myself

I want friends from my love of story

I want story from my pain

I want beauty from my breath

I want shadow from my soul

I want love from surprising and joyful people

I want absolution from my conscience

I want to be released from penance

I want more coffee from the steward

I want safe passage from the wild things in the Land-of-What-If and-Maybe

I want passion from men

I want kindness from women

I want compassion from myself

I want my body from college days

I want a new car from the universe

I want a room with a view and five hundred a year from my pen

I want laughter from my wit

I want protection from the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune

I want to give from head, heart and spirit

I want to watch the gloaming from the terrace of my castle for the next 100 years

For the next 100 years

I want to watch the gloaming from the terrace of my c

For the next 100 years

I want to watch the gloaming, sometimes alone, sometimes in good company from the terrace of my castle

built of breath and sticks shit and rusty barb wire, belly laughs and snide snickers sequins and cotton candy strawberry jam guitar strings and sea shells creosote and Carrara marble ice and comic books, empty read lipstick cases, silk shawls, cinnamon hearts cocktail umbrellas, day old baguettes, broken crayons, throwing stars, red silk lingerie & used condoms dried lavender and 600 thread count sheets crucifixes and broken glass paper clips and diamond bracelets thunderstorms and Catherine wheels body shots bloody bandages and lace hand kerchiefs rock salt and silver candle sticks purple velvet and grape vines wicked daggers and leather bound books, rotten fish & pepper pots prayer flags pine cones cinder block neon tubing crocodile tears warm hugs and butterfly kisses

Shadows Gather - Chapter 1, Part 2

Shadows Gather

A Novel by Carolynne Ciceri

ã Carolynne Ciceri, 2009

Chapter 1, Part 2

"You set me up, from the moment you met me, you knew." His voice has dropped a bit and the hand is steadier on the gun. That's a good sign, right? "From the moment I met you I knew that you were special, if that's what you mean." Wow, I sound a hell of a lot calmer than I feel. "Mica please, you know I want to help, you know I'd do anything for you. Please put the gun down." I push backward slightly on the wheels of my chair and open up a few inches between me and that amazingly sparkly gun barrel. Serves me bloody right for installing crystal chandeliers in every room. The play of a miniature rainbow off the barrel of a 45 is not the lighting effect I had in mind.

His eyes drop to the chair and the gun barrel droops accordingly. Damn, I thought I taught him better than that. Oh well, time for remedial gun-handling 101 after I talk him out of shooting me. "Haven't I shown you that already?" My voice falls too, to almost to a whisper. He's the reason I'm in this chair and hell, I'm not proud of rubbing it in his face at a time like this but sometimes a girl has gotta do what a girl has gotta do.

My On-Line Novel Experiment - Shadows Gather

Hey all - the previous post is a writing experiment. As I have recently discovered I'm holding my writing too tightly and over thinking it. So I am experimenting in letting go by writing one page of the novel "Shadows Gather" each day. That's it. Just one page. No more, even if I feel the urge. In one year I will have a complete novel. Be interesting to see if it is any way comprehensible! I expect it to be dreadful, but I really need some practice letting the story lead me, so here I go. Also by resisting the urge to write every thought out I am hoping to keep the spark of interest alive in me. So often by the time I sit down to write I feel like I'm watching a movie I've already seen 8 times and it becomes work. As a special treat you will get several postings at once since I began a few days ago - but then, one must return regularly to find out what hell happened. And given my melodramatic penchant for sex and the supernatural - well, just about anything could happen, don't you think?

Shadows Gather, Chapter 1, Part 1

Shadows Gather

A Novel by Carolynne Ciceri

ã Carolynne Ciceri, 2009

Chapter 1, Part 1

So much promise. It really would be a shame if I have to kill him after all. Michael Slotnick is a sort of protégé of mine I suppose you could say. An accidental one to be sure, but a protégé nonetheless. I'm a fixer for the local preternatural community, and of late I've been showing Michael the ropes.

Yah, I know, I haven't figured out how to phrase it on my tax forms yet either. “Supernatural Fixer”, “Cleaner to the Undead and Unholy” you begin to see my problem. But there it is, when the things that go bump in the night get scared or screw up, I'm the one as gets the call. The question is, when I'm scared or I screw up, who am I supposed to call? And I might of this time. Really screwed the pooch. Up shit creek without my paddle. Staring down the nickel-plated barrel of the revolver of destiny held in the shaking hand of a strung out pretty boy who has just learned that the blood in his veins ain't quite as purely human as he thought. That shaking hand belongs to part-time model, part-time construction worker Michael Slotnick, and if I don't say just exactly the right thing right now, I think he's going to shoot me dead.

"You knew, didn't you?" Michael cried,” You knew all along what a freak I am, didn't you? Didn't you!" A spray of spittle from the corner of his perfects lips adds marvelously to the whole crazy wild-eyed, hand shaking, psycho out of control thing. "Michael, Mica baby calm down." I'm scrambling for something to say. How did I lose control of this so fast? "Mica, tell me what's wrong, I can't help if I don't know what's wrong." There, ball is in his court - that's the way to handle a crazy person, right? Make him use his words?

Sunday Night Whine

This has got to be the ultimate in frustration. Writing for no purpose but to try and clear some crap out of my head. I have two blogs I should be posting to a stage play a novel a screen play and a TV series all that require attention. Not to mention followup with a bunch of people of varying walks of the biz who would like to talk to me about their project. My head is full of a bunch of thoughts that I can’t keep straight. I’m annoyed by the over sexed album cover peering at me from my Itunes app. Some thick lipped teenager trying to look mysterious and seductive and failing horribly in my book. There - fixed by the luscious lads of my desk top.

I feel like I’m trying to fix myself and then I get mad at myself for thinking I need fixing. I try to self medicate and self analyze till the cows come home and yet still can’t shake this feeling of failure and lethargy. I could call it being bored and lonely and yet the last thing I want to DO is anything and if anyone contacts me I’m afraid it’ll set me off on a rant. I’m afraid to read my email or check my blog equally because there will be nothing new and also because there might be someone wanting something from me.

This is almost writing as punishment as I watch the clock tick to 7 and know that there is only one show on TV tonight that I want to watch (True Blood) at 8 and so if I can just do my two pages of blather I can at least say that I read, wrote and danced today. Might even get in a half hour of guitar practice. So strange to me that in a year of pretty big wins career wise that I’m moping around cause the next one hasn’t arrived yet. Which is an email from the Mentor confirming what a brilliant and funny writer I am and how she can’t wait to get my contract as staff writer for her new series signed. (which is completely my fantasy by the way, not her actual offer) Sigh. I even paused in this writing to check my email and blog just in case. Nope. Though interesting enough The Teachers want to publish some of our writing in an anthology - funny how those two continually surprise me with things about writing that I never thought of. Sure and it will force me to review the lessons learned and go over the exercises again so that is gotta help this malaise. Though really interesting to me how many of us have been stricken with the “can’t get out of bed” thing post cruise. One of the Teachers and I have had flu. The Mentor said she just slept for two days and The Empress has had major back pain.

The twilight is falling and I’m not watching so excuse me while I take a few moments to watch the shadows gather. So, is that all it takes? A beautiful twilight, a glass of wine and some pasta? Now I feel super and all is right with the world. Except for the fact that I didn’t do my Raingirls beat sheet. But I did read widely: The Black Swan, Women Who Run With Wolves, The Vampire Diaries and Successful Television Writing. I did shower. Don’t laugh, some days that is huge accomplishment for me. I danced, I wrote, and I put two loads thru the dishwasher. Tomorrow I may even get the two weeks of mail out of my mailbox and take out the garbage. Please wish me luck with that – especially the taking out the garbage thing.

427 words about nothing

Practice and Probiotics

So I’m feeling a bit squeemy today. That is a word of my own invention that reflects a typical combination of symptoms, sorta nauseous, gassy, faint headache, and crazy fatigue punctuated by the occasional rumblings from the more extreme regions of the digestive tract, all in all I see through the haze of slight fever, things are just not schmirpeedoo. I have picked up a stomach bug. Likely from the office as three of my close colleagues (office geographically speaking) were sequentially smitten with it last week and over the weekend. My turn. Oh yeah. So I was taking up space on the couch I was giving myself permission not to write. As you see that permission was declined as I am deep in the truth of the matter which is that writers write. Every day. Writing practice must rank with a dancer’s daily time at the barre or a musicians daily scales. It is not negotiable in that it is essential to keeping the mechanisms intact and the process, well, processing.

One of my Sisters of the Pen (whom I will consult with on the correct punctuation of that phrase) told me that she read that one must post at least thrice weekly in order to keep one’s blog followers following. Hmmmph, I thought to myself. I suppose that could well be true, however, I’m not certain that fact – if it is a fact given that I don’t really know who studied blogging frequency and stickiness – is motivational to me. Since I’m still not entirely certain why I’m blogging, both the whofore and the whyfore, I think I’ll take that with a grain of salt. Nope in fact with a slug of Pepto – excuse me a minute. Ah, much better, thanks for waiting.

This post is in fact inspired by not being inspired. After a week of experimental writing (for me it was, not necessarily for the others) one of our fearless leaders encouraged us to write even when we didn’t know what we were going to write about, let the writing figure itself out so to speak. So I needed to put in my practice and so the health report. I’m not sure it worked, and I promise to keep the symptom reports few and far between in future. Perhaps I’ll try riffing on the weather next time inspiration is lacking. Or maybe this was all warm up and I will think of something charming and fascinating to say before day is done. But don’t hold your breath.

Flow vs. the Briar Patch

Since I just spent a very distilled week in a room with 15 other writers I can be forgiven I think for stating that the process of writing and the nature of writers is very much on my mind. Ordinary women with extraordinary voices. One of the things brought home to me was that this thing called writing is not easy. While all of us gifted with a high school education can write – we know the alphabet can shape words and phrases – that is a far cry from shaping meaning and magic. One of the surprising things I learned (to be truthful all learned things during this workshop were surprising since I had it on good authority from Skyhammer before I went that I didn’t need to learn anything more about writing) is that flat writing can come from Flow and amazing writing from the Briar Patch. Like many writers finding the ease and rush of Flow has always been the thing to pursue. The idea being that if it feels brilliant that it is brilliant. I suppose if I had thought about it in any depth before setting sail I would have known how silly that is. I have had enough creative collaboration to know that those who smoke weed before working only think they are being brilliant. In the light of day…

Since returning and sharing with a few of my tiny but vociferous fan club the truly kind and positive things my Sisters of the Pen said to me about my writing, one oddity looms large. My fans insist that I’ve known all along how good I am. That isn’t quite true. I think a person can know that they are good. Competent maybe. Great, nope. I don’t think great is something that one can accurately assess in ones own work. Cause you know what? Great has nothing to do with me. It has everything to do with you. Yes gentle reader I can work my fingers to the bone for you, but ultimately it is you receiving it that makes it any good. Kinda freeing that realization. I will continue to strive to be good and let the great take care of itself or not. I was advised that first, last and always to bring my willingness, that is the key, and lucky me, that is something I can do.

Another thing among the 9 million things I learned is that just because we crave applause and praise and kudos for our writing, doesn’t make it a bad thing that we receive those things. After all, receiving genius is a huge rush and let me tell you I received some this past week that will stay with me all my days. If I tell you something you wrote touched me – thank you is the only acceptable response. Deep breath, respect us both, and say “thank you”.

Miss Me?

Alrightly then. I am a writer. Writers write. Every single day. Oddly my brain feels empty. Well maybe not so oddly. Most of the last week it has been so full that my thoughts have been leaking out my ears. Apologies for not blogging about the workshop and to a certain extent apologies in advance because I won’t be spewing vast quantities of information about what went on in the room because that is sealed in the circle. I can share some of the things which went on in my head and are still going on, since after all that is what this blog is actually about.

I think one of the reasons that my head feels like it is filled with mist is because it is. Or maybe it is dust as the things stirred up so deeply and profoundly settle. Walls that have stood impervious since childhood have crumbled. Tremors in the earth have opened up new cracks and crevices and light and air spills into caverns hitherto perpetually dark. Cool, one rarely gets the opportunity to use the word "hitherto".

Now must go puppy sit in the ‘burbs and lack of wi fi will prohibit further posting till the mist clears. How's that for being a tease?