Wanting to feel like a kid again...

I remember The Lady of The Dunes.

She's a ghost who haunts the beaches of Cape May, New Jersey. It was in that city, filled with it's quaint Victorian style houses, the kind that towered three stories over the street, hugging the shady oak canopy, that I remembered. They commanded a distinct presence in Cape May - their shadows cast upon narrow city streets lined with cars, peppered with lazy tourists, and laid back locals. The stately homes served as a reminder to the Cape May of yesteryear.

When I was much younger, I stood on the beach collecting Cape May "diamonds". They were small, translucent rocks that shimmered like diamonds. As a curious child, I loved Cape May - the point at the end of the small peninsula jutting off southern New Jersey, where I could collect diamonds and polish them and pretend they were of actual value; where I could see the sun sink into the water at the end of the day; where I could eat pancakes stuffed with fruit in one of the quaint Victorian houses that was transformed into a restaurant.

Then, just up the road from picturesque Cape May, is a striking contrast. Glittering casinos dot the skyline of Atlantic City. They rise above the water and cast a striking reflection of boisterous activity against the calm serenity of the sea. It was there, in Atlantic City, that I was born. Not physically, but in a different sense. Some of my first jobs were in that city, working for several of the casinos there.

Now, I have seen the devastation that has befallen these two cities on the New Jersey coast. I watch with the rest of the country in horror, at the decimation of the Atlantic City boardwalk, the toxic floods, and the homes that were literally just washed away. It's the New Jersey shore - the place with Wildwood rides, the boardwalks, the fantastic pizza, the lemon shake ups, the traffic jams, the great pancakes and the sand, sun and fun.

But the Lady of the Dunes is another thing. She is known to walk the beaches of Cape May. Maybe she was off that night the storm hit, or maybe she had no control over the event. I just know one thing: Cape May, Atlantic City, and the rest of the Jersey shore will emerge much better. You see, sometimes we have to nearly lose something to realize how strongly we feel for it. Look at New Orleans in 2005. We almost lost that city.

This is the same thing. Who doesn't love the Jersey shore? They will come back. They will get better. And the Cape May, the rides, the casinos, and everything that makes Jersey "Jersey" will be back, and welcoming us once again with boxes upon boxes of delicious salt water taffy.

And then, when I stand in the future, on the beach in Cape May, collecting diamonds, feeling the cool sand between my toes, I will look to the west, to the crimson sun dipping into the water, and feel like a kid all over again.

The Balancing Act

We all need balance in our lives.

I know, from years of working the hotel business, that it's easy to get away from that. Now, as a writer, I face the same balancing act - the same challenges that I did as a young professional working in a thankless, sixty hour a week job that barley scraped the bills by. The challenges are just coming from a different direction now - and I have to manage them a different way.

Years ago, writers had a lot more hurdles to scale before seeing their beloved masterpiece in print. They had to toil over a manuscript, sometimes for years, print it out (or worse yet, type it page at a time), and send it off (snail mail, remember that?) and wait for six weeks to several months or more to get a form rejection letter in the mail. Then, the process would start all over again until a publisher decided to accept the story. And that could be years.

After a publisher accepts the story, another year or two could pass before seeing the book on the shelves. Rewrites, reformats, etc... all would happen during that time. A proof would be made of the book, which the author would need to approve, etc etc etc...it eats away at time.

The rewards, of course, of going with traditional publishing, can be tremendous. As those publishers invest a substantial amount of money in the promotion of the newly accepted novel, it can pretty much expect to be a best seller. Or at least a decent seller. A writer could say, if their novel is accepted by Doubleday, they have crossed a major hurdle as a novelist. Publishers like Doubleday rarely accept anything that doesn't have best-seller written all over it. Of course, they are missing out on many fantastic stories that could be best sellers by being so selective.

But today, we have the beauty of the internet, online print-on-demand publishers, and social networking. Authors now have avenues to get their books in print - actual, physical books - and out to the public while bypassing the traditional publishers. The years long process of the past is now a thing of the past. The joy that authors feel - when they see their masterpiece listed on Amazon, Barnes and Noble...or better yet...in their hands for the first time...is a feeling that all authors can now experience, thanks to online self-publishing.

So that presents the new challenge to today's authors - otherwise known as "the balancing act". Today, we have the beauty of Facebook, and Twitter, and YouTube and all the other social networks to market our writing, to scream from the mountaintops that we wrote a novel! Please, please, please read it! And in some cases, the online networking leads to publishing house where the streets are paved with milk and honey....the New York Big Boys. But again, it's a balancing act. Those same engines distract a writer from exactly what they have been trying to do in the first place: write more books.

So, the balancing act. Each of us new authors scale the edge of that cliff; we tiptoe across that balancing wire to find our "zen zone" where we go back and forth between researching, writing new material, editing, and marketing what we already have finished. But the rewards come, as self fulfillment for the author and some fresh, fantastic stories for the reader.

So those that don't buy self-published works, those that don't take them as seriously, must keep in mind the passion that has gone into these self-published novels. Skipping over them for a more well-known name, like the big publishers do, could mean missing a fantastic story....written by a new, fresh-faced author - with a new vision - that could very well become the Anne Rice, Stephen King or John Grisham of tomorrow.

Everyone has to start somewhere. Please support the start up authors. The self-published novels of today are the best-sellers of the future; the same books that are being passed over will fuel tomorrow's films. Please support new authors for the art of the future!

Photo Credit: Rudicil Photography

Wild Horses, and how they contribute to the "Process"

Okay, enough posts about death...for the time being at least!

I know that most people opt not to think about that inevitable part of our lives, but death has been on my mind lately from some dreams that I have had (including one about my own death). However, it's mostly book research. A lot of people like to read about death and the Quantam Realm, and someone needs know something about that topic if it's going to be written about!

You are probably wondering where the title "Wild Horses" fits into all of this. It actually has quite a bit to do with what I am about to tell you. Susan Boyle, the "Britain's Got Talent" newfound star is performing a cover of "Wild Horses" by the Rolling Stones on Pandora. Here is the song here:
Susan Boyle sings Wild Horses..

So this song was playing on Pandora, and I typically have music on while I write. I find that the creativity behind music also stimulates my creative mind. And for all of you writers out there, here is a little snapshot of my process.

  
A little bit about my writing process

 

Every author has a different process. Toni Morrison writes her novels out longhand on yellow legal paper before typing them; Anne Rice researches a novel for 1-2 years before sitting down to write a word. And I "plant seeds" before birthing a book of novel length.

When I conceive a story, I start it, and write a chapter. If I feel that I need to tell more of the story right then, I will write another chapter or two, or an entire "opening sequence". Then, I put it away. I give the infant piece a page on my website, to keep it fresh in my mind, and let it marinate and grow. Some time later, I pick it up and continue it - and it's usually bit by bit. I have several novels that I am working on, and I may write a page or two here, or a page or two there, as the events in the story are revealed to me, to keep the content fresh, alive, and not "seemingly forced".

When I am further along in the process, such as with Shiva/Rebirth, I will revisit it more often as I am feeling inspired to carry the plot along in the novel. And then there is the editing and revising stage, where The Quest for Immortality is currently. In this stage, I print out 150 or so pages of the manuscript, and create an outline. I do some light editing, but that's not the most important part of this process. The most important part now is outlining the story , building the plot (tension/conflict), and developing a resolution.

At that point, the "holes" are filled in, and the novel is completed. Which brings me to Ashes:


This photo is a very rough printout from 2007, when this novel was first drafted. As you can see, there are notes and corrections, but, of course, this novel is now far from where it was in 2007, and is nearing a publication date. Ashes is furthest along in the process.

And the process just continues for each novel I write; soon, other novels I am working on will be in the stages of final drafting and editing. The process simply repeats itself.

But what you need to do, if YOU want to be a writer, is find the process that works best for you. I do most of my best writing outside the house, in a noisy and busy environment, usually having a beer. Then I edit and revise at home with coffee. That may work for me, but every writer is different.

So it's up to you to find what works best for you. I know that I am still finding what works best for me. And we all learn from the process!

Conversations with the Dead

Conversations with the dead happen on a daily basis.

More often than not, there are minute little details in your life, that present themselves in front of you, that could really be considered communication from beyond the grave - if you take the time to see the signs for what they are. Yesterday, I wrote about my grandmother, who I hadn't thought about for a while. Today, she thanked me for it.

Earlier in the day, I had been out running errands. While on the way to Target, I happened to be driving by someone from Michigan (in the state of Florida) and, since I had spent a good part of my life in Michigan, I took a closer look.

Lo and behold, the license plate frame had the same exact intersection where my grandmother's apartment building was. I thought it was uncanny! I made a mental note to call my mother about it as soon as I had parked the car.

"Mom!" I said, a tinge of excitement in my voice. "You are never going to believe this!"

"What is it?" she asked.

"I was just driving behind a car from Michigan! And the license plate frame had 14th and John R on it! That was where Grandma's apartment building was!"

"You have a good memory," she said. "Yes it was."

I continued to speak to my mother about what I had seen. What was profound about the conversation was not that I was following someone from Michigan, or that they had bought their car at a dealer that was located at the very same intersection that my grandmother had lived at while she was alive, it was why I had seen it.

"She was on your mind yesterday, since you were writing about her," my mother explained. "That was her way of giving you a nod, of letting you know that she knew you were thinking of her."

And so it hit me.

I understood the reason, I realized that I did speak with my grandmother today, in the way that you "speak" with the departed -- in small signs, little details in your life...telepathically. A feeling.

And when you look back on a situation, you understand so much more clearly.

Yes, I had a conversation with the dead today. My dead grandmother. And I see more clearly now how we keep those we have lost close to our hearts.

The Telephone Call

I am at a stage in my life right now where I am questioning everything.

When I was a child, I lived and acted on faith. I was raised in the Catholic Church, and went every Sunday without fail. All the teachings about life, and life after death, I believed in faith. I still hold the beliefs to this day, but lately have been asking myself if we just believe what we believe in just to make us feel better about dying.

And that led me to ask, is there really life beyond the grave?

When I was a young adult, I did not think much about spiritual matters, but since my teen years, I have had a deep fascination with the paranormal. I have never had any type of incident where a ghost appeared before me, or had a poltergeist that rattled chains in my attic, or anything that would prove to me that the supernatural realm even existed at all.

But I continue to pray, try to live righteously, attend church when I can, all while continuing my research into the paranormal realm. That fascination has fueled my writing in a big way; most of my novels are about paranormal topics, and an author that writes about supernatural fiction certainly must believe in the Quantum Realm? Yes?

So is there life after death? I can't really answer that one. I know what my beliefs are as a Catholic, but no one really knows for sure. I do know that I find comfort in believing that those in my family who have passed on are in a better place now, and watching over us.

I remember talking with my mother once about my grandmother, who had passed in 2003 due to complications of Alzheimer's disease. My grandmother spent her final days in a nursing home, pleased as punch to be "dating" several men on her floor, but failing to remember them moments after she left them. Talk about always having a giddy first date! My mother visited her every day, without fail.

One night, after my mother spent the evening with my grandmother, the phone rang at precisely 4:00AM. My mother answered it sleepily, thinking that the nursing home was calling for one reason or another. It was just static.

About an hour later, the phone rang again. This time it was the nursing home on a clear line.

My grandmother had passed away, about an hour previously.

When I talked with my mother, years later, about that phone call, I asked her what she thought the static filled call meant.

"Oh, that was grandma," she said with confidence. "I could feel it."

And I explained to my mother my thoughts on believing in the paranormal, how our souls move on after death.

"Oh yes," my mother said. "We most definitely go on, and it happens right after we die. When I received that call, I felt very deeply that it was your grandma, and that she we telling me that she was with Grandpa, and that she was okay."

"So she was checking in on you?" I asked.

She nodded. "She was letting me know that she was fine, and making sure that I was alright, before moving on."

Life beyond the grave.

We don't really know for sure what happens, but the little signs like this telephone call say that there definitely is something out there. Yes, there is life beyond the grave.

When we learn to accept death not as an end - but rather a transformation - we will further understand.

That they're all still okay.

On Loss, On Life

The other day, I came across a song from my past while listening to Pandora. It was "100 years" by Five for Fighting. It's really amazing how much differently I hear this song than when it came out in 2003. Back then I was almost 10 years younger than I am right now. And when I listened to the song for the first time in years the other day, it floored me at how profound the message truly is.

When this song came out in 2003, I lost three members of my family in the space of 12 months. None of the deaths were a major tragedy or a life cut short; but they were sad events nonetheless that were in rapid succession one after the other after the other. By the end of the year, the entire older generation of my family had passed on. My parents were now the family leaders. And when I look back at that period in my life, I feel that it changed me.

The first family member I saw lying in a casket was my paternal grandmother, who died in 1979. I remember standing on my tippy toes on the kneelers next to the casket, touching the body with my little fingers, asking if she were sleeping. Of course, she was not. I just didn't understand what death was, being only 3 years old.

In 2003, though, I knew what death was. At that point in my life, high school classmates of mine had already passed away. I was working in Miami, enjoying life, and then the call came. My father was on the phone, he sounded defeated. My grandfather had passed away. He had a heart attack and died while being brought to the hospital.

I remember the feeling that came over me a few days later, when they opened the doors to the viewing room at the funeral home in Michigan, and we all walked in to see our grandfather lying in his casket. When the initial wave of emotion passed at the first sight of the casket, it was replaced by a dull sadness. After we buried him, we all stood around and looked at my grandmother's grave, next to his. And it gave me peace to believe that they are together again.

A few months later, I got a tearful early morning call from my mother that my grandmother had passed away, her mother. This was a difficult time, as I remembered her very well, from the years that my grandmother had lived with us while we witnessed her decline with Alzheimer's Disease. I remember a sense of relief when she looked so peaceful in her casket, and I remember my uncle breaking down after commenting that my grandmother waited 38 years to be reunited with her love, my maternal grandfather, who passed away long before I was born.

I had begun to bounce back into my life when I got another call - that my step-grandmother had passed away, just four months after my maternal grandmother.

That was it.

She was the final living member of that generation of my family, and she had just died.

And she was a close friend of mine, who was my roommate for a few years.

It was a difficult funeral, not because she died young (she was 80) but because I never got to say goodbye to her. She had been diagnosed with lung cancer, and she went rather quickly. I knew she was sick, but suddenly she was gone. My last memories of her were of her gardening, watching horror movies with me on tv, and cooking dinner together. I was not prepared for her to be gone.

Those feelings returned when I listened to 100 years the other day. Not the feelings of sadness and loss - but different feelings. And it was amazing to me how differently I perceived the song at 35 as I had at 27. Now, I stop and listen, I let the lyrics resonate, and I look for the message and the meaning.

And I know that the message of this song is that life is fleeting. Every time we turn around, every time we blink, we will be in a new stage of our life. We have our hopes, our dreams and our naivety of our youth; which is replaced by the wisdom of our older years. The song taught me that while yes, life may be passing quickly, it taught me that life is a cycle. We go through changes, and we eventually pass on to the next life.

But still, even when we are gone, we are still here. We are still here in those that we left behind - in the new babies that our born each year, in the nieces and nephews that are graduating from high school, we are there in our siblings that raise their children with our blood and our genes and our mannerisms and our looks.

And once we have passed, we can look down from the heavens, looking down on our families, on the lives that continue to pass; we gaze on the cycle that continues again and again and again...and can say...

"I am still there."

An Unexpected Addition

I never thought, in all of my life, that I would spend several hours one day saving the life of an infant squirrel. But that happened to me just yesterday, and I honestly didn't comprehend what was happening at first when Tiny notified me of something wrong in the backyard. I didn't know, I was inside the house at the time.

But as I stepped outside to investigate, Tiny's big brown eyes looked up at me with concern.

"What's wrong Tiny?" I asked, as she whimpered.

She sniffed the dirt below her, pointing it out with her snout.

A baby squirrel, laying on its side in the dirt. So young that its eyes were still slits and not yet opened, so small that its little chest heaved up and down in terror. I looked up at the trees above, imagining a horrendous fall from the giant oak canopy two stories above, and I started to think that this poor unfortunate baby squirrel only had seconds left.

After putting the dog inside, I examined the infant more closely. His face was in the dirt, his mouth was full of sand, and he was shaking. Using a plastic shopping bag, I gingerly picked him up and put him on the patio table.

And that's when I knew that we were this little infant's only hope to survive.

I confided in my closest friend, called my mother, and tried to determine what to do with the little fella. I was concerned that the fall from the tree may have injured him internally and that he may expire any time now. My call to the vet yielded a stern "we don't look at squirrels" and calling the Wildlife organization was useless as well. We were on our own to help this guy.

But what happened next is really the makings of miracles.

We took the little infant squirrel and placed him in a small box (a box that you generally get checks in - he was that small) and insulated it with little leaves. After giving him some shredded lettuce and sugar water, he started to come around.

And started to call for his mother, a tiny shrill scream, over and over.

He had difficulty navigating the raised sides of the box, and of course he couldn't see, but he managed to muster the energy, after some time had passed, was able to call for help.

And that's when my friend suggested to leave him be, and sent an excellent site on the care of infant squirrels: Squirrel Tales".

Getting dinner prepared, thoughts started to enter my head, since his situation seemed less dire. Would he imprint himself on us? Would we now have a wild squirrel as part of the family?

And for a while, we did.

We tried to determine what would be best for him, how he might survive the night, and we kept an anxious Tiny from going outside to relieve herself - at least for a little while - so the little guy could have a little peace and quiet to gather his senses and call for his mother.

And then, just as we were about to start eating dinner, it happened.

I looked outside, and saw the box. I saw the leaves, the lettuce we had shredded for him, and the tiny soda cap of sugar water was tipped over.

"Nim", our little pet that we had named for just a few hours, had been saved by his mother.

And that short time, that brief time of having an additional pet, has confirmed thoughts of why animals comes into our lives. Mehki came as a tiny, skinny and hungry black and white tuxedo kitten, meowing incessantly and latching onto us immediately. He grew into the healthy and lovable cat that he is today.

Song called to us for help about two years later. We were looking for a cat at the time, as a friend for Mehki, and we were at the Humane Society. That's the place were un-adopted cats and dogs are put down. Well, Song, whose original name was "Sun", looked right at us and winked. And we knew he was asking for us to pick him.

And we did.

And then of course there's Tiny, who bounced into our lives a year and a half ago as a little puppy, who has grown into a large, protective and loving dog who we wouldn't trade for the world.

And then there's Nim.

We only had him for a few hours.

But they were critical hours of his life; they were hours that would have decided whether he lived or died. And it was when looking back at the time, knowing that he was sent to us for a reason. He fell out of that tree at that precise moment and that precise time, right in our backyard, because we were there to help him to ensure that he could live.

And that's why he came into our lives.

He came into our lives so he could live, and we were meant to save his life. And, because we were called to rescue him, he now can live as he was meant to be.

And maybe one day, an adult squirrel will dash down from the giant oak trees above, run across the top of the fence, closer to the patio, and we will look up.

His head will cock to the side, his eyes wide, his arms holding a nut, and he will tilt his head, and skitter away.