About J. A. Allen

J. A. Allen, author of the upcoming contemporary fantasy, Old Souls: When a woman claiming to know him from a life ten thousand years before asks Lucien Navarro to return to their great family, he abandons his antipsychotics to uncover the truth. His soul is immortal. Once the leader of three hundred beings who’ve incarnated over and over through the ages, Lucien must unite his kind again to rise up against a cult set on their destruction, take a stand in a war which has raged behind the veil of human awareness for millennia, and fight for a love that defies the boundaries of time.

Strings


He remained warm a long time.

Warm and still. I lay with my head on his chest, straining to hear the heartbeat that had lulled me to sleep so many times before. Only this time, I wasn’t trying to sleep. I wasn’t tired. I was engulfed: drowning in the tide of arrangements I’d have to make once I picked up the phone to announce it.

The sun rose slowly behind the blinds. He’d usually be up by now. Every night he made sure the alarm was ready, and every morning he rose before it went off. On the rare occasions I woke before him I could practically feel his consciousness return to his body; the stages of his awakening marked by a subtle, sentient shift in his breathing. He’d yawn. Quietly stretch. And then he would lay still a moment, caught up in mental preparations for the day.


In the last few years his joints creaked and popped as he rose from the bed. But, it wasn’t because he was old. He wasn’t old. Not old enough, anyway.


coffee-1487886_1920.jpgEach day began with the same routine, ever since the kids moved out. He’d put on his slippers and shuffle to the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee, humming softly. He’d make his way down the front stairs to grab the paper and pull the door shut quietly behind him, careful not to wake me.

The lapel of his pajamas was soft between my fingers. Our room still smelled like him. The scent of his breath. His hair. How long could I lay with him like this before the smell of him ripened?

It had always seemed like there would be more time.

There had been times throughout our marriage I fantasized he would die. I’d even longed for it in the days after we laid our first baby to rest. I had wanted him to go with her so I could move on. So I didn’t have to see the sadness of losing her swallow the spark of fatherly pride that so briefly lit his eyes.

It had been morning when he found her still and quiet in her crib. She had been released from life as irretrievably as the string of a helium balloon, floating above the reach of my careless grasp. I should have known. I should have felt her passing, but I didn’t. Just like I hadn’t felt Walter’s, sometime in the hours before.

He brought home a puppy, three days after Luanne died. He’d left me alone in the house until dinner and returned with the dachshund, a bag of kibble, and a rubber ball. How many years ago had that been? Fifty-three. Our Luanne would be fifty-three now.

How I hated Walter when he brought that dog home.

I didn’t love my husband. I hadn’t loved him before our daughter’s death, and I didn’t love him after. In truth, there was never any great spark between us. We went through the motions of love. Meet. Become engaged. Get married. Exchange our apartment for a house. Buy a dog after our baby died, as if that would help. As if a dachshund might entice me to forget the sweet way the top of her head had smelled, and the warmth of her tiny body at my breast.

I pulled back a little, moving my head to the pillow beside his to take in the sight of Walter’s face in the rising light. His colorless lips hung open slightly. Small grey hair sprouted from wide nostrils and spilled from his ears. Lines ran thin around his mouth and eyes, and deep across his neck.


He was old. We both were. Maybe I just hadn’t noticed before. Not really.


The blankets were wet at my legs. It had happened quietly. A final release of urine while the organs inside his body shut down, like lights switching off in an old house at night, one, by one, by one.

I left him to shower. The water felt good on my shoulders, and I adjusted the taps gradually until the stream was almost scalding. I stood naked beneath the flow, watching the clouds of steam rise in the air. He’d been a good father when he wasn’t pulled from the house by clients. I’d raised the boys alone for the most part. He mowed the grass, budgeted my grocery allowance, paid the bills, and came home to cold dinners, left on the stove long after the kids had reluctantly padded to bed.

That was a long time ago. There would be no need of asking Walter for permission to spend money now. I could paint the house whatever color I wanted. I could sell the house if I wanted. In fact, I’d have to. There’d be no reason to keep up with the shoveling in winter, the gardening in summer, and the raking in fall without him.

Partitioned from the world like this, water raining on my back, it was easy to imagine Walter at the table, drinking coffee, turning the pages of his paper. The memories came easy of him teaching our sons to ride their bikes on the road out front and to skate on the rink out back.

Would these memories come as easy if I lived somewhere else?

No, I never loved him. Not in the way women loved men in the movies. I could live without him now. Thrive without him. We had never been soul mates. We argued more often than not. About trivial things. They all seemed trivial now.

The boys would want to salvage some of his things. A few tokens to remember him by. What would they choose? His tools. His journals. His books, maybe. And I’d have to go through the rest, weeding out the objects binding him to our house. I’d made these arrangements before, for his parents, and then mine: the going through of the houses to remove the things. It had been hardest when Walter’s mother passed. She loved me like a daughter since the first time we met. She loved me effortlessly. Easily. I could almost feel her sadness of his passing now. The comfort she might offer me if she was still here. The tightening of her arms around my body.

What was this feeling constricting the bones in my ribcage? Sadness? Regret? What was a woman supposed to feel, in the moments after her husband died? I had been the witness of Walter’s life, and I failed him. I never loved him the way he deserved. I never loved him the way he loved me.


The conditioner rinsed from my hair, I turned off the tap. I hesitated, listening to the last of the water trickle down the drain. The house was quiet. Walter’s body waited.


Clearing the fog from the mirror, I examined my reflection. My eyes weren’t quite as sharp as they used to be; the border between my pupils and irises slightly blurred. Water dripped from my short white hair. My breasts hung heavily from my chest. Yes, I was old. Just as old as Walter. And we had come down this road together.

In the bedroom, I pulled Walter’s clothes off his soft, deflated body. I struggled to roll him to the clean side of the bed and dress him in fresh pajamas. Blue ones, his favorite. I changed the bedding and put the put the soiled laundry in the washer downstairs after ensuring he looked comfortable, head propped up on a couple of pillows. This is how the EMTs would find him when they came.

I puttered about the house, moving our glasses from the coffee table in the living room to the dishwasher and tidying the kitchen. The phone rang once, twice, three times, breaking the sanctuary of silence to remind me of the outside world. The world waiting for me to say it.

What were the boys doing now? Were they eating? Talking to their wives about their children and grandchildren? How could I tell them their father had died? I picked up my cell from the counter. A picture of Walter with our youngest great-grandchild lit the screen. A girl. The only girl in our family since Luanne. How Walter loved her. How he spoiled her. How she’d miss him.

They’d all worry about me now. They would swarm and hover. But I didn’t have to tell them yet. It would be days before they expected our call, checking in to see they were well in their respective cities of Vancouver and Saskatoon.

The old oak tree stood strong and tall outside the kitchen window. nature-3176398_1920.jpgBelow the surface of grass and dirt, its roots had likely twisted around bones of the dachshund I’d loved; the dog that had carried me through my baby’s death, just as Walter hoped.

We would bury Walter next to Luanne, next to her grey rotted coffin in the cemetery just out of town. But then, maybe Walter was already with our baby. With his parents, and mine. And maybe he was waiting for me.

I let the cellphone timeout to black and padded down the hall. I lay on the bed beside him, clean and fresh, and ready.

I kissed his cheek. I took his hand in mine.

Oh, how I had loved him.

This was how they’d find us.


 

Small Things


Tonight I’m making a roast.

I work four nights a week. While the hellions are in school I edit Old Souls, which means the nights and weekends I do get to spend with the boys are typically quite busy. 68d87662123424c6b65f8fa98cdb0b02Meals are rushed. There is homework to contend with, chores to be doled out, and music lessons to practice between futsal, basketball, and physiotherapy appointments for the youngest hellion’s clubfoot, which has recently begun to turn back in as his quickly growing bones seem to be growing a little too quickly for his muscles to keep up.

*takes deep breath*

Sometimes I look at my family and marvel at how fast life moves.

My husband and I often pass like two ships in the night: occasionally able to enjoy each other’s company in the workings of everyday life, but usually high-fiving at the door for “shift change.” We exchange texts and calls throughout the day, highlighting all the pertinent information like what’s going on at work, or that one of hellions needs to be monitored a little more closely on his newly acquired social-media privileges, or a message from the principal about the middle one fighting at school.

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Should have seen that one coming . . .

This is our life. It isn’t the neat and tidy undertaking I envisioned with that first positive pregnancy test: where my husband and I would be home to enjoy family meals at night, and my career would fit neatly into a 9-5 package. Sometimes I feel like I’m just treading water: my book will never be finished, I’m not devoting enough attention to my job, house, or marriage, and I’m a terrible mom.

I hear those feelings are normal these days.

Our life is messy, and oftentimes not ideal, but it works. Our family works. Our life works.

And it’s often only when tragedy strikes that we realize it.

On Friday March 8th, one of the oldest hellion’s good friends lost his mother in a horrific car accident on her way home from work.

I didn’t know her.

It was snowing. Her son was waiting at home. And instead of meeting his mother at the door, he was greeted by two police officers who took him to the hospital to meet his father.

Even though we weren’t friends, I have been affected by this woman’s passing in ways I could have never anticipated. It’s as if the world has been spinning like a top the last few years . . . and has suddenly come to a halt. It’s as if this moment stopped us to stare at the stars.road-3168803_1920

And all I can think of is this boy and his father.

And all I can think of is my own beloved hellions opening the door to find two police officers with terrible news.

Tonight, it’s supposed to snow again. The winds are going to blow. In fact, I can hear them now, railing against the front windows, growing in force. Tonight, we will be together, safe indoors with absolutely nowhere to go.

So tonight, I’m going to make a roast.


 

A Character Guest Blog


Amie Fish

written by lucinda e. clarke


LUCINDA 10Dear JA, I happened to be passing her laptop when I saw your email and I have to admit I feel extremely hurt. Why oh, why did you ask her to write something when I have a much better story to tell?

There is no comparison to her boring life when mine has been so exciting, well some might think that, but to be honest, she’s put me through so much hell, I’d leave her if I could.

I was quite happy living near London close to my family and friends, but then she packed me off to Africa with my new husband, just when I’d planned out the rest of my life. OK, so I settled down and it wasn’t too bad, except she had me out with a video camera recording all kinds of daft things including – wait for it – a massacre which was indescribably awful. Then, she creates a civil war and I’m right there in the middle of it. Everyone else had been flown out to safety and I get thrown in jail. I simply can’t describe how ghastly that was. So, I get free and then have to make a run for it. Yes, she sends me out into the bush with a few bottles of water and minimal food how cruel is that?

amie-1-bookkindle-pic-250kb.jpgWas she finished? Not a bit of it. Not content with that in book 2 she has me searching for my foster child who just happens to have been captured by a radicalized terrorist group.

She has a nasty habit of killing off all the people I love, and blows up my house and I lose everything, and I mean everything, even my name and my identity. (You do know Lucinda E Clarke isn’t her real name, don’t you? Well she changes mine as well and didn’t even consult me).

The brutality continues as I’m dragged off to intercept arms smugglers and end up perched on the edge of a tank full of sharks with the biggest teeth you have ever seen.

And that reminds me. The humans I meet are dangerous enough, but let’s not forget my close encounters with lions, crocodiles, hippos, snakes and practically everything that’s dangerous on the African continent.

And where is this paragon of virtue all this time you ask? Sitting comfortably at her dining room table tapping on her laptop without a care in the world. She pauses every now and again to hatch up another dangerous plot, kill off another friend I’ve made – she has such a nasty habit of doing that – and then waddles off to replenish her coffee (she makes two mugs at a time) and grab a chocolate bar from the fridge. set 1 of booksApparently, this is the diet that helps her brainstorm yet more appalling scenarios. And what am I doing? I’m slogging through the bush, with the sweat pouring down my face stinging my eyes, my shirt sticking to me, every muscle is aching and my tongue is swelling in my mouth because I’ve not had a drop of water all day.

I’ve tried to talk to her, I really have, but her only response is that people don’t want to read about boring day to day lives when nothing exciting ever happens. She throws words around like ‘cliff-hanger’, ‘nail-biting’, ‘on the edge of your seat stuff’, but between you and me, I think she’s the boring one and it would be a total waste of time to let her loose on your blog.

So, as soon as I’ve finished this, with all respect, I’m going to delete your invite, she won’t notice right now as she’s won yet another award (yes, for torturing me) and she’s busy on her iPad tweeting it to the world.

If you hear of any organization which will fight for the rights of the downtrodden, helpless heroes and heroines caught in the dark recesses of the writers’ mind, I would love to join. I’m familiar with human rights but what about character rights? No one ever considers us.


Yours miserably,

Amie Fish


LUCINDA E CLARKEWhen it comes to me talking about me and my books I’m a disaster! Do I mention being abandoned in the African bush with a 9 week-old baby? That I’ve lived in 8 countries, in a mansion, a one bed flat and on a boat? Meeting kings, presidents, international artists and peasants? Earning my living by writing after I got fired from my teaching post? Or what about that live radio broadcast with a bayonet digging into my neck?

I ran the very Worst Riding School in the world, and presented on radio and had my own video production company, with dozens of tales about some of the famous people I’ve met including Mandela. The problem is there is so much it took 3 books to put it all down on paper and that’s only the bits I remember.

Officially, I’m retired now. Not a chance, I’m only pretending while working 24/7 writing books, 8 to date, and wrestling with the marketing world.  Once I make the first million or five I’ll be off sailing round the world scribbling on my mega yacht, but that’s never going to happen.


Lucinda E. Clarke


WRS Kindle Cover (1)You can meet up with Lucinda here:

Web page – http://lucindaeclarkeauthor.com

Blog link  http://lucindaeclarke.wordpress.com

twitter name  https://twitter.com/LucindaEClarke

I have a free novella myBook.to/WRS

https://www.books2read.com/u/bw8May

Newsletter sign up: http://eepurl.com/c-GqWr 


 

Top 5 Lessons From Bad Writer

I’m proud to call Allison Maruska one of my writerly besties.

She writes YA Urban Fantasy, and Adult Mystery & Suspense stories. Her first novel, The Fourth Descendant, has rocked Amazon bestseller lists for the last THREE YEARS.

You can check it out here:
https://www.amazon.com/Fourth-Descendant-Allison-Maruska/dp/1507809840

Her sense of humor is dry and witty, and her Twitter alter-ego is a truly special brand of cut-throat hilarious. This post had me in stitches.

Allison Maruska

I have an alter-ego on Twitter. Her name is Bad Writer.

BW page

She doesn’t have a million followers or viral tweets or anything like that. She exists merely to be the public face of my sarcastic side. And since I talk to writers a lot on Twitter, she focuses on writing.

Since her creation in July, she has tweeted 643 times, according to that screenshot. That’s a lot of bad advice being doled out. Some of those are quoted Retweets from Nat Russo’s #HorribleWritingTips, Sam Sykes’ joke tweets, Tweeps who reply, and other parody accounts, but most are her own content based on things that I read she reads. Sometimes, the content overlaps a little. I thought we could use those instances for learning. And since Bad Writer says the opposite of what a writer should do, the lessons will be actual constructive things with her non-examples.

Lesson 1: Stop abusing…

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Writing: 7 Ways to Cure the Dumbs

Recently I’ve been experiencing a pretty extreme case of the dumbs. man-869215_1920People battling the dumbs often have a difficult time performing ordinary tasks: like replying to emails, speaking in full sentences, or remembering that their spouse asked them to pick up that thing at that place for an immediately forgotten but very, very important reason.

Writing has been painful this month. And, when I say painful, I mean that writing has been like pulling teeth. If the teeth were attached to my eyeballs, and my eyeballs were on fire, and I was being dipped slowly into piranha infested lava.

Despite the leaps and bounds made in today’s technological age, the dumbs are hitting people harder than ever. Information is readily available. Forget the name of your hellion’s teacher? Look it up on the school website. Want to learn how to cook the perfect scrambles eggs? Watch a Gordon Ramsey tutorial on YouTube. Need to know the name of the song playing over the radio? Shazam will tell you.

Retain much of that information?

Forget it.

A wide number of independent studies led by psychologists, neurobiologists, and educators have found the web is actually changing our brains. The online world promotes hasty reading, hurried and distracted thinking, and superficial learning. Yes, the Internet opens access to an unfathomable amount of information, but it’s also turning us into shallow thinkers with less of a need to exercise our brains by storing the information we seek for use later.

And don’t get me started on shows like The Bachelor and Keeping Up With the Kardashians, which make society dumber as a whole.sub-buzz-2156-1484677751-3

A recent study done in the University of Texas actually found that the mere presence of smartphones where we can see them — regardless of if they’re ringing or on silent mode, facedown –dramatically reduces brain power.

The dumbs can hit working authors harder than anyone. When we aren’t allocating large portions of time to surfing the web for research on our current WIPs (or watching the Kardashians while we’re supposed to be), the very act of sitting in front of a monitor all day to write can be damaging to our brains (and eyes) all on its own. Not only that, it increases your risk of heart disease, diabetes, depression, and obesity.

So, how do we beat the effects of extended computer use?

How do we overcome “the dumbs?”

1. Eat Properly

Eating too much junk food affects the way you think, negatively affecting brain synapses and several molecules directly related to learning and memory.

Increase your brain function by adding these “smart” foods to your daily eating regimen: Blueberries, wild salmon, nuts and seeds, avocados, whole grains, beans, pomegranate juice,  freshly brewed tea, and dark chocolate.

2. Get Plenty of Rest

The need for sleep can vary between individuals, but most people require between 7 and 8 1/2 hours per day. 

People who are exposed to sleep loss can experience a decline in cognitive performance and changes in mood. Sleep deprivation can often lead to a rise in blood pressure and a decrease in things like metabolism and immune response.

Side note: the proper amount of sleep can help the way our bodies respond to stress.

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Writers? Stressed? Never.

3. Take Breaks

A five minute break every hour to throw in a load of laundry, walk your dog, or toss some food in the slow cooker will improve your brain function and general well-being. Unsure whether Harry and Melinda end up together or Melinda runs off with Ricco? Making decisions like these all day can wear down your ability to reason, leading to simplistic decision making and procrastination (not to mention bad books). Breaks can restore motivation for long-term goals, productivity and creativity.

Which is great, especially for authors tackling an entire book.

4. Get Plenty of Exercise

Hellions 1 & 2, working it out.

The benefits of physical exercise, especially aerobic exercise, range from the molecular to behavioral level. Exercise releases endorphins and makes people happy.  Exercising for as little as twenty minutes per day improves information processing and memory functions.

On Sunday I opened my WIP to find myself incapable of editing a single word. I removed a word here, added another one there, and immediately erased all of the changes. My brain was peanut butter. A large part of the problem is getting the right amount of exercise in winter. I have an active job, but it’s not the same as flat-out, heart-rate topping, good old fashioned exercise. So, I went online to find a human hamster wheel, and two hours later I was setting up a brand new elliptical in my basement. Having only gone on it twice, I can already felt the effects of working out reinvigorating my brain. Writing a blog typically takes me three hours. (I’m slow, I know.) This one was finished in an hour and a half, after I had already achieved my goal of editing Old Souls for four.

5. Fuel Your Creativity

Your creativity is a living organism. If you don’t nourish it, your ability to think creatively will whither. If you find yourself incapable of working on your writing project, try passing a little time on something else. Meditate. Write something by hand. Paint. Listen to music. Daydream. (Shower daydreaming is ideal — just keep a pen nearby because you WILL forget all of your brilliant ideas the moment your hair is dry.) Laugh. Sit in a coffee shop. Drink writing wine. Loosen the hell up.

6. Talk to People

Yes, yes, we all know the vast majority of writers are introverts. But a conversation that lasts as little as ten minutes can actually increase your brain activity. In fact, simply looking at someone activates the brain’s language system. 

Keep in mind, not all conversations are beneficial. When you talk with someone you’re competing with, the cognitive benefits disappear.sheep-2372148_1920

7. Read

Reading a novel you enjoy enhances connectivity in the brain and improves brain function.

It can drastically boost a writer’s vocabulary: a good novel is a dictionary and a thesaurus crafted with the express purpose of being interesting. Novels teach a writer how to develop tension, write dialogue, and create engaging characters. They offer writers inspiration. Writing is often hell, but reading is almost always fun, IF you find the right book.


We did it! 7 Ways to Overcome the Dumbs. Now we’re all just a little bit smarter.

Do YOU experience winter dumbs? What are your best tips and tricks to rally cognitive function?


Author Alter Egos and the Future of Scribbles

interscope-records-eminem-new-albumI watched a video on Facebook the other day chronicling Eminem’s rise to superstardom from the trailer park. (Yes, I WAS avoiding work on Old Souls, thank you SO  for pointing that out.) I planned to link the video to this post, but like so many other things on Facebook, it seems to have fallen into a rather unfindable abyss. The video detailed the struggles the rapper endured throughout his childhood: his mother’s abuse, and the bullying he was subjected to as a white kid in a predominantly black community.

He began rapping as a means to cope. He memorized the dictionary. He entered rap-battles.


And he lost.


It wasn’t until Eminem adopted an alter ego that he became a household name. Slim Shady was the man who made us all stand up. He took hold of the rap scene in 1999, and held on with murderously tight death grip for years afterward.

The narrator went on to allege Eminem would not have risen to the success he achieved if not for the invention of Slim Shady. Is that true? Maybe. And, Marshall Mathers III’s alter ego wasn’t the only one to peak public interest. So did Lady Gaga’s. Where would Sean Combs be without the media firestorms incited by the billion times he’s changed his name over the years? That said, not all alter egos work well. Garth Brooks is a country super star. Chris Gaines? Kind of a schmuck.SCHMUCK.png

In any event the video got me to wonder, could authors benefit from having alter egos?

In today’s day and age, writers have to do pretty much everything. They have to write books (already very hard) and they have to promote themselves. YOU want to be a writer? You’re going to need to get on Goodreads. You need to blog, tweet, Flipboard, stumble and Facebook. You need to appear at Writing Conferences and book signings. You need to have Swagger in the Age of the Author Brand.

Authors have a reputation for being *cough* slightly introverted. The other thing we’re known for? A little thing called Impostor Syndrome. “Impostor syndrome refers to the feelings of fraud and self-doubt often experienced by high-level achieving individuals.”


The unfortunate news for WRITERS is that we don’t have to achieve high levels of success to feel like impostors. The mere admission that we’re *gasp* WRITING can cause us to break out in a cold sweat.


That means that in the age of the author brand, introvertism (I don’t think that’s a real word) and Impostor Syndrome have a very real shot of crushing our writerly careers before they even begin.

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It might also be a picture of me trying to get upstairs on my birthday. Who’s to say, really?

I chose to use the moniker J. A. in place of the words people usually toss my way (Jenny, why are you late again) for two reasons. One: so that I could protect my real identity when I rocketed to superstardom — an obviously very likely scenario — and two: so that it would take people a little bit longer (like a half a second) to figure out I was a woman when they picked up my book.  At the time I believed the general public preferred male fantasy writers over female ones. While planning to write this blog, I held a Twitter poll.

Screenshot 2018-01-08 at 12.15.01 PM

The results were eye-opening. To me, anyway. I was surprised even further when some Twitter followers (men included) commented on the poll, saying that for various reasons, they would actually be more likely to purchase a book written by a woman than a man. Which makes the 12% of people who said they would be less likely to purchase a book written by a woman virtually obsolete.

Which in turn, led to my next Twitter poll.

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I was baffled. When I shop for books in a bookstore, I look at the covers. If the cover looks good enough, I’ll pick up the book to read the blurb. IF I make it past the blurb, the book gets opened, and the author bio gets studied. Only after the author bio passes the test will I CONSIDER flipping through the pages.


Is this because I’m a writer? I don’t know. Many of the people who follow me on Twitter and participated in the poll are writers. I think. Well, they say they are. The majority could very well be robots.


OR, is it because we writers have a FALSE perception that people are thinking about our PERSONAL worthiness before examining the quality of our work?

Wait a minute . . .

Is that where our impostor syndrome comes from?

*pauses*

*clears throat*

The polls seem to suggest that who the writer is is becoming less important than ever before. Yes, we’ll rush out to buy a book by the authors we love . . . but, their accomplishments? Whether or not they have a master’s degree in English? Whether they’re male of female?

Not important.

Because Old Souls is not quite finished, I wondered what this information means to me as a blogger. Which (of course) led me back to my new favorite obsession: Twitter polling. screenshot-2018-01-08-at-12-54-19-pm.png

Hardly anyone participated in this poll, which was too bad because the results were the most interesting to me, personally. Seeing that this was my third poll in three days, maybe people were tired of all the questions. Or, maybe this particular poll didn’t ruffle as many feathers as the male vs. female question. In any event, based on these stats it would seem that people pick up books based on the appeal of the content. People follow blogs to get to know the author.

I’ve been considering changing up the format of Scribbles on Cocktail Napkins for some time. Outside of the summer Scribble Challenges, the theme of the site has generally revolved around my writerly insecurities and attempts to get over them. The problem is I’m getting kind of tired of writing about that. That means, YOU’RE probably getting kind of tired of reading about it. Which is WHY I’ve been considering an author alter ego to go along with my authorly moniker, J. A.

(By the way, J. A. is always on time for everything.)

That said, I’m not about to tie you to the bed and set the house on fire. My alter ego will not be all that different from me. I will still be Mother of Hellions, Hater of Spiders, and Drinker of Wine. I’ll still be an aspiring kicka$# author.


But I will also be confident.

Because writers need to be confident.


41% of voters admitted they don’t follow author blogs, eliminating the necessity of including their feedback in this change to Scribbles — which is a blog. (Haters gonna hate.) But, a whopping 39% of voters said they follow blogs to get to know more about the author.

Bearing that in mind, Scribbles on Cocktail Napkins will likely get a little more personal.GIVE THE PEOPLE WHAT THEY WANT


But not too personal.

Nobody wants to hear the nitty gritty.

Think: late night talk show personal.


I’ve also been considering adding a writer interview series to the site. Why I Write would be a more INTIMATE look into the forces driving individual authors to create, and the influences that helped mold their perspectives on life and the world today. The authors would (of course) have an opportunity to promote their work, but the bulk of the interview questions would take a more personal approach.

Depending on interest, this series of interviews might begin as early as February.

So, if you’re a writer interested in being featured on Scribbles on Cocktail Napkins, shoot me an email!


ScribblesonCocktailNapkins@gmail.com


And hey, if you’re a blogger, I want to know, what do YOU blog about? How do you keep your readers ENGAGED? What do you think about the necessity of author ALTER EGOS?


 

Present Presence

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Well, it’s happened again.

Another year has gone by, proving the adage true: time moves faster with age.

According to my (beloved) hellions, growing up takes “forever.” And we’ve all been there.  We remember a time when age only served as a boundary sectioning us off from accomplishments like staying up till 8 o’clock, watching scary movies, and getting our license — and when the only way to achieve our goals was to simply to wait.

To age.

On the opposite side of the spectrum, I feel like the hellions grow out of shoes overnight. They begin their school week and come home for the weekend in the same breath. They need haircuts in what seems like every time I turn around.

But, it isn’t just the boy’s lives that seem to be moving so quickly. Mine is too.

My new year resolutions have remained fairly consistent over the last few years: all aimed toward the completion of Old Souls. And yet, the bane of my existence *ahembook remains irritatingly unfinished.

I find myself asking, where the hell is all the time going?

I recently realized that this swift passage of time may partially be my fault. I am wishing time away, frittering it away, and in general, not paying attention to the time I have.

I’m easily distracted.

As it is with many working parents, to suggest I am “busy” would be an understatement. I don’t mean to say that the hellions themselves are distracting.c8b22e03af860900d35b8325a15b4ade But, the boys need help with homework. They require chauffeuring to music lessons, sports, and friend’s houses. They like being fed occasionally — roughly fifteen times a day — and usually return the favor by leaving towering piles of dishes, laundry, and Lego in their wake.

When I’m not dealing with that (or working), I’m editing Old Souls.

I manage the bulk of my daily tasks begrudgingly, consoling myself with the promise that one day when I quit my day-job to focus on writing, or I hire someone to help with the cleaning, or the kids move out, there will be magically be more time. In the throes of endless to-do lists, I’m often thinking of the million other things I should be doing, wondering whether I’m spending my time efficiently enough, and berating myself for not utilizing my time properly in the past, putting myself in the situation of having to complete whatever task I’m doing . . . now.

In all this running around, in all this doing while distracted, and planning for future success and mumbling about past failures, I’m missing opportunities to be fulfilled, and to recognize the success in the moment I am in.

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My 2018 mantra.


I live for summer heat. The beaches on Prince Edward Island are the main reason I moved here in the first place. But, to live on the island means to accept the good with the bad. And the bad? (In my my mind, anyway.) Maritime winters. I hate Maritime winters. No, I abhor them. I hibernate. I sulk. I suffer. I wish all of the gray slushy days away. And here on PEI, winter is the longest season of all. Which means effectively, I’m wishing 1/3 of my life away every year. I’m missing the opportunity to be happy.

It’s something I’ve resolved to change, which means purposefully acclimating to winter in 2018, and choosing to be comfortable in the cold by spending time outside, throwing snowballs, and going for walks, because I don’t want to wish 1/3 of my life away.


I want to THRIVE in the in the moments I’m in.


I’m going to choose to be mentally present in whatever task I’m working on. I’m going to weed out distraction. I’m going to stop, and be present in the present tense.

When I’m with the hellions, being mentally present will mean making an effort to transform time spent en route to basketball, futsal, and music, or even *shudder* while helping with homework, into quality time. Because, I want to be a witness to their lives. I want to experience their hell-raising. And when they move out one day, I want to know in my heart that I soaked up every ray of sunshine the little monsters wreaked through my house, and in my mom-van, and wherever the hell it is we’ve been.

Being mentally present means paying attention, so that while I’m writing or editing, I’m actually writing or editing, and not flitting time away doing something else that simply does. not. matter. Like watching people fall off hover boards.

What was I saying?

I’ve come to believe that when we allow ourselves to be distracted too often, we risk losing sight of our goals. We risk ours lives slipping away unnoticed by ourselves.

We’re missing the moments we have: the very lives we’re building for ourselves.

So, in 2018, I’m going to be present in the moment I am in. I’m going to pay attention the the task I’m tackling instead of thinking about the billion other things I could be working on.

I’m going to make an effort to appreciate daily life, the good and the bad.


I’m going to finish Old Souls.

And I’m going to do it by accomplishing MORE in the time I have.


A while ago, I purposefully stopped blogging, and cut back on Facebook And Twitter in an attempt to propel my Old Soul writing project to its final conclusion. A week went by without a blog post. Then two. Three months have come and gone since then, and interestingly enough, I’ve found that my Old Soul output is more consistent while I work on the blog on the sidelines.

So I’m back. Once again, I’m going to actively participate in the platform that has been so fun to build, because I love it, and because it works to actively fuel my creativity.


If you want something done, ask a busy person to do it. The more things you do, the more you can do. –Lucille Ball


All that said, Old Souls IS almost done. I’m going to be looking for beta readers sometime in March. If you’re interested in becoming a Old Soul beta reader, contact me directly at:  

Scribblesoncocktailnapkins@gmail.com


It’s been a long time since we’ve talked. I want to hear from you! What are YOUR resolutions this year? And, how do YOU stay present in the present?