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Author Archives: Dennis Langley

21 Days to a New Habit

19 Dec

How many of you NaNoWriMo winners have continued to crank out 2,000 words a day since December 1st? 1,000 words? 500 words? Threw the computer out the window and swore never again would my fingers touch a keyboard? If you have continued to write every day since 12/1, regardless of the word count, your are ahead of the curve.

Two grand a day is a lot of flippin words. Especially for someone with a full-time job or with several kids in the house. I’m not sure I could do it for a week, let alone a month. My hat goes off to you who did it. But, the real takeaway as I see it, is if you wrote every day for thirty days, you created a habit. Whether you want to believe it or not, you did. The experts say it takes twenty-one days to create or break a habit. Even if you did not reach the ultimate 50,000 words, you sat down and wrote something every day for thirty days.

So…since you went to all that work to create a habit, are you going to let yourself slip back into your past self?

I realize that, with my snail’s pace typing skills and my need to pay the bills and keep my wife smiling, I will not create 2,000 words a day anytime soon. However, I am three days away from creating a habit of writing every day, averaging 500 words a day, and moving my WIP forward in the process. The plan is to continue this habit going forward. I keep finding ways to put writing off and then I kick myself in the butt and go to the keyboard.

Creating the habit is the tough part. Forcing yourself to do it no matter what takes sadistic discipline with masochistic tendencies. Those of you reading “50 Shades of Whatever” can jump in here. Once you reach the 21 day mark, you have dealt with the majority of obstacles that might come your way. Why stop?

I will see if I can finish creating a writing habit and maintain it.  I will comment once in a while on my progress.

My question for you is this. If you created the Writing Habit and let it get away, why?

 
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Posted by on December 19, 2012 in Thoughts on Writing

 

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Me watching you watching me

18 Dec

Dear Friends and Acquaintances,

Yesterday, it struck me again how much information is available on the internet. What started out as a two-minute search for the properties of Bloodstone, turned into a three-hour session that covered topics ranging from geology to modern magic to Wicca to various other organized religions to the US Bill of Rights to personal information on a friend of mine. I found the Bloodstone information I was looking for in the first two minutes, but I just could not help myself. One question led to others. It is so easy to get lost in the internet and the nearly limitless amount of information house there. So, needless to say I fell farther behind on my FAD challenge word count.

Then, I jumped on the blogosphere, read a few posts, and made some comments. As I was commenting on a post, it occurred to me, again, how much personal information we share with others without giving it much thought. We talk about ourselves, our families, and our lifestyles. What we like to eat, to drink, where we like to go and things we like to do. Now, I am no longer as paranoid as I used to be in my younger days. I don’t post information about others without their expressed permission. However, there is still a little voice that tells me to pay attention to what goes on around me. People are watching what I say and do. 😐  Dun, dun, duuun!

Since I am giving out so much information on myself, I thought it would be a good idea to keep track of who it is I’m giving this information to. WordPress, to my knowledge, has not seen fit to provide who stops by to view my posts so, I must take matters into my own hands. I decided to create a clone. The clone would need a disguise to ensure no one would know it is me. It cannot sleep and should be easy to care for.

For reasons which I will not get into in this public medium, I have a close relationship to the Rabbit/Hare. Yes, I know they are very different. I am a biologist for crying out loud. However, many people think they are the same thing and I am not inclined to take the time to explain it every time the question comes up. That’s what the internet is for.  🙂 But I digress. I looked through 80,000 images and found a self-portrait which now resides at the top of my blog site.

So, beginning now, I will always be here, watching you watching me!

 
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Posted by on December 18, 2012 in Musings and Odd Thoughts

 

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Actress and the Warlock

12 Dec

Since September 21 was the start of the next year of my life, I took some time to reflect and evaluate the past year. I have posted about most of the trials and tribulations of family and friends with medical issues. Also, I have posted about the lake cabin purchase and the positive effect that has been. All of these goings on have taken their toll on writing time.

Overall, I feel I am in a better place than I have been in a long time. My priorities are becoming clearer and writing is bubbling up to take on an important role going forward. In light of this revelation, I have decided to get back to the original purpose of this blog. My intention is to post more of my writing. Though I am still nervous about posting excerpts from my novel-in-progress, I have decided to share a few scenes from the MS as well as other “ideas in the works”. The plan is to post these every other week while trading off with writing tips, thoughts or concerns. Please, let me know if anything piques your interest.

The first one will be a continuation of a previous post, My Scene, a story line that began as a writing exercise. I thought the character was interesting and mixing urban fantasy with a western novel flair made me curious to write more of the story. I’m planning on this being a short story to see if the character and premise works. This short introduction sets up the initial meeting of the protagonist with his client and provides a little background.

    The rain started before I left Grandfather Puma’s hogan in Tres Piedres. Grandfather Puma was a shaman who lived up in the hills a mile from the black top. The fine dust that filled the tire ruts he called a driveway turned to red clay soup. I needed the Jeep Cherokee’s four-wheel drive to get back to the pavement that led east to Taos. The rain stopped before I reached the Rio Grande Gorge so, it was little help in washing off the Jeep before I got to the turn off to Amy Hatcher’s ranch. Since it wouldn’t make much of a first impression on an Oscar-winning actress if the Wizard King’s Marshall left a pile of red mud on her blue flagstone driveway, I headed into Taos to find a car wash.

     I came to a stop in the car wash stall and heard several plops, as the accumulation of New Mexico’ clay began to fall from the wheel wells. I stepped out of the Jeep and deposited the required two dollars into the machine. The power wash wand jumped as I pulled the trigger. Soon the Jeep bled red clay from every surface and every door crack. As I worked, I thought about my conversation with the shaman. 

     Puma was old even for a shaman. With age, comes wisdom and power. Puma was the top-tier of his profession. That made it doubly disturbing when I got the message that he needed my help because something was stalking a famous actress.

     After a sweat lodge, Puma told me that whatever was stalking Ms. Hatcher, was not a skin walker. That piece of information let me breathe a little easier as skin walkers are evil and vile creatures in Native American culture. I once saw my mother shy away from open conflict with one and she is one of the nastiest wizards in North America.

    Puma said that whatever the stalker was, it did use magic like a skin walker. It terrorized its victim and then fed on the victim’s fear. So far, there was no physical harm to Ms. Hatcher or her staff. However, the local animal population was dwindling and even Puma’s protection wards had not stopped carcasses from being left around Ms. Hatcher’s property. The mutilated remains were getting progressively closer to the main house and the messages attached to the carcasses carried greater threats. That’s when Puma sent word to me asking for my help. Puma was leaving the following morning to travel to Window Rock to perform spring ceremonies on the reservation. Therefore, I would be on my own until he returned in four days. That’s fine as I am used to working alone. It sounded to me like I was dealing with a black witch or a warlock. However, Puma said no normal warlock had ever broken his wards before. This did not make me happy. Before I left Puma’s, I took a few items out of an old canvas backpack I keep in the Jeep. I slipped my prayer stick and my power orb into the left pocket of my coat. A bracelet, made of silver wire twisted around seven bloodstones, went on my left wrist. I checked to ensure the stainless steel .357 magnum was loaded then, slid the worn leather holster onto my right hip. Maybe I was overdoing it a bit but, I would rather be paranoid, prepared, and alive than any of the alternatives that ended with me being dead.

Twenty minutes after I pulled into the car wash, my forest green Jeep pulled onto Highway 68 and headed north towards Ms. Hatcher’s ranch.

 
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Posted by on December 12, 2012 in Actress and the Warlock

 

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Christmas letters

10 Dec

I’ve been working our this year’s family Christmas letter. Some times it is a major chore. But, this year I am enjoying it more. Partially because I’m happy this trying year is about over, partially because it helps build a writing habit, and partially because Shannon M. Howell is letting me include it in the FAD challenge word count. 🙂

Holiday letters are an interesting writing form. Some are like a status report on the health and welfare of the family in question. Others go into great detail of the goings on of the family over the last twelve months. Still others consist of a picture, usually of a child or children with a few words about each child. Some individuals look forward to receiving these letters from friends and family during the holidays. Others see it as corny and a waste of time.

Mine falls under the second category. You see, with me,  it is tradition. Just prior to my mother’s passing, she gave each of her children a copy of every Christmas letter she had drafted for the last twenty years. It was a surprise for us and something that meant a great deal to her.

My mother took great pains in drafting these letters. Each family member had their own paragraph that detail their achievements. Sometimes she would allow us to add something that we thought was important. Reading back through these letters is like looking in a mirror at what we used to do and what made us who we are. Those who write memoirs would do well to save these letters as they contain ideas and stories you may have long forgotten about.

I will draft the letter this year. It will include the sorrow of losing my wife’s mother and our last cat, Libby. It will also include publishing an article for a magazine, the purchase of a lake cabin, and fishing with my wife. We will send it out to those we know and love. And we will wish every one of them and healthy and happy holiday season. Hopefully, they will enjoy the mini-memoir that is our family tradition.

 
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Posted by on December 10, 2012 in Other Strangeness

 

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Writing is like a Train

05 Dec

For me writing is like a train.Train

The Warm Up:

Train: The engineer gets into the locomotive, turns on the power, and fires up the engine.

Writer: I create characters that I think will be interesting. Next comes a situation the characters find themselves in that will create tension and lead to further adventures. The setting is somewhere within the fantasy world I created years ago. Finally, I gather my plot notes (islands), character sketches (Traits and Tags), and a big bottle of water and head to the Storyboard. Once the islands have been laid out, I go to the computer.

Leaving the station:

Train: The locomotive winds up and builds to a roar. The train begins to inch forward. It crawls along for a few yards as the full weight of the train is taken on. Now there is some momentum and the train begins to pick up speed.

Writer: The blank screen is deafening. My mind is full of the possibilities that await the characters but, nothing is happening. There is a moment of panic and self-doubt. My hands reach for the keyboard as I try to formulate the first sentence. It has to be the best sentence of the story. The hook has to be perfect. I stop and take a drink from the water bottle. Then I remember that the first draft is always crap. My hands return to the keyboard and I peck out the first sentence. No, it’s not perfect but, it is a start. Take another drink. Back to the keyboard. Soon the first paragraph is complete and the head is getting into the game. Each paragraph that follows is easier than the last.

Coming up to speed:

Train: The train accelerates to its cruising speed. The power and momentum seem unstoppable. The cars jostle around over the uneven tracks. However, the train keeps going forward.

Writer: Once I get into a writing rhythm, woe unto any who disturb me. My mind is in high gear and the fingers begin to have a hard time keeping up. I have become the characters at his point and the story flows out like a lake draining though a broken dam. I just stay out-of-the-way and let it happen.

Coming into the next stop:

Train: The Engineer reduces the power and the train begins to coast. The friction of the wheels against the steel rails begin to slow the train down. As the train enters the station, the brakes are applied. The momentum of the train strains against the brakes because it wants to keep going. At last the train jerks to a halt and the sound of the locomotive drops to a hum. It’s not off, just waiting for the command to crank it up again.

Writer: The mind is racing forward ahead of the fingers and it sees the end of the scene/chapter/story before the fingers do. Once the mind reaches the end, it begin to coast. The fingers continue to bang away but by now fatigue is beginning to set in. The keystrokes are becoming softer and begin to slow down. The final paragraph flows forth but much weaker than before. Finally, the fingers type out the last few words and then become motionless on the keys. The Save button is pressed. The mind, however, is already working on the next scene/chapter/story. Wanting to move forward.

 
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Posted by on December 5, 2012 in Thoughts on Writing

 

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Tribute to my “daughter” Libby

04 Dec

I woke up Monday and went about my morning routine. That is, of course, until I went downstairs to feed Libby. But there was no meow saying “Good morning, I’m hungry”. There were no bowls to fill with water or dry food. There were no pee pads to pick up and throw away. There was no furry little face looking at me through the bars of the gate. Only the darkness and silence of the family room at 5:30 AM. You see, Friday, after I got home from work, my wife and I took Libby to the Vet for the last time. I had no intention of putting her down when we left the house. But, I had no idea how far she had deteriorated in the last three months.

Libby was the last of my three “children”. For the past twenty-two years, there has been at least one and for a long time three feline members of my family. My middle child, past away from kidney disease at the age of seventeen. My eldest child succumbed to fluid on the lungs at age 22. And my youngest, Libby, left us Friday night due to complications from thyroid disease.

Libby came to us on a spring morning. I found her hiding under the house. We call her our unwed mother because at the ripe old age of nine months, she was VERY pregnant. She looked like she had swallowed a softball. She was half-starved and was the most pitiful creature you ever saw. We fed her for a day or two and then had to make a decision. She was ready to deliver and we were on our way out-of-town for the Memorial Day weekend. I did not want to leave her and come back to a litter of kittens or worse. Based on her obvious malnutrition, I doubted the kittens would be healthy. The alternative was to take her to the animal shelter and place a finder’s hold on her. She would be examined, fed, and cared for until we could get back from vacation. We could then make a final decision on whether to bring a third cat into our home. The down side was, if she had the litter while we were gone, we would not be told the fate of the kittens unless we placed a hold on them as well. This I’m told is standard procedure for animal shelters. This decision was almost as difficult as having Libby put to sleep 18 years later. We finally chose to only hold Libby and prayed the Shelter would do what was best for the kittens.

When we returned from our trip, we prepared the house of the new arrival. Our existing children were locked in one area of the house with their food, water and litter boxes and the rest of the house would be free for Libby to explore for a few days until she was adjusted to her new surroundings.

When we picked Libby up from the shelter, she was a different cat. She had indeed delivered while we were gone. (That is how I wish to think it happened. I do not know what happened,nor do I want to know.) She was five pounds lighter than when we dropped her off. Half of her body weight had been kittens! But, she was healthy. We paid for vaccinations and care. Then, we took her home.

Over the next few days, there was a lot of sniffing under doors and paws being stretched under doors trying to reach each other. Libby roamed the house at will and chose to mostly, ignore the bedroom. There were obviously two very interested felines wanting to find out who had invaded their territory. Finally, on Friday night we let the three of them see each other for the first time. There was a few minutes of hissing and posturing with me standing by to separate them if necessary. Fortunately, a pecking order was soon arrived at and peace returned to the household.

I treated the cats like family. Each had their own food and water bowls. Each had their own litter box. My wife and I made sure we spent quality time with each one every day. It may have been wrestling with the big male, or having them chase a light around the room, or maybe just giving them a special massage of their own. Whatever it was they each returned to attention they received many times over.

I treated the cats like family and they reciprocated. After a serious car accident that left me on my back in a recliner for thirteen weeks, my children would take turns getting up on the recliner and laying, spread eagle, over my shattered knee. The warmth of their little bodies and their energy covered my knee. The added weight also helped during rehab exercises. 🙂  I believe to this day, that they were a big part of my knee healing. They knew I was hurt and made sure that at least one of them was with me 24/7 for entire recovery.

Sometime in the future, we will again add a couple of furry members to our family. Once the pain of loss has subsided and we are ready, we will find two felines who need us as much as we need them. Until then, I will remember, “Little Mr.”, “The Lover”, and the “Unwed Mother” and know they are waiting for my wife and I at the rainbow bridge.

 
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Posted by on December 4, 2012 in Musings and Odd Thoughts

 

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Campfires

03 Dec

7526122-a-campfire-in-the-night-next-to-a-basecamp

A few weeks ago, I cleaned out all of my old floppy discs and converted the data to my hard drives. I was surprised to find a selection of  writings from twenty years ago when I lived in Denver, Colorado.

The City of Denver has a serious pollution problem because it sits in a bowl against the foothills and there is usually a cold inversion layer that holds the exhaust fumes and smoke in the bowl. It hangs over the city like a brown blanket unless there is a strong wind coming off the mountains. So, years ago the city implemented wood burning bans on high pollution days. The piece below was written by the light of my fireplace.

     It is autumn. As I pull my car into my garage, the unmistakable scent of wood smoke invades my nostrils. It’s coming from a neighbor’s house. Suddenly, a rush of memories overwhelms my psyche. I see our old fireplace Where the family would gather to tell stories, plan our canoe trips, and roasted marshmallows. I see the wood burning stove that warmed the house at the Farm during the cold January weekends. Then there are the council fires at my Order of the Arrow initiation and the cooking fires on trips into the Boundary Waters Wilderness Canoe Area. That sweet, pungent aroma has become part of my very being.

     In this day and age of backpacking stoves and wood burning bans, due to high pollution days, my opportunities to add to these memories are becoming scarce. I understand the need for such measures but, I don’t have to like them. My heart goes out to the children of the future who will never know the pleasures of sitting around a campfire with family and friends. The story telling, the songs, the recitation of monologues memorized long ago, the meals that taste so good after a long days work, the stinging of the eyes and the smell, of the wood smoke.

     I will always enjoy staring into the heart of a campfire. The Native Americans called it “Fire Dreaming”. The flames form an ever-changing pattern that never repeats itself. The fire sings as the wood hisses and snaps. I can’t help but feel that the fire is talking to me in a language that I once knew but, has escaped me. My cheeks start to glow like the bed of coals that formed underneath the flames. The heat surrounds and penetrates me. The fire consumes all of my cares and worries. All distractions disappear as I am drawn into the Dance of the Flames.

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     Anyone exposed to campfires will tell you that they can be intoxicating. Total strangers can gather around one and instantly a bond is formed. This must come from sharing the warmth and the light. The fellowship is inescapable. Most times, silence is a big part of this fellowship. However, when silence is not in order, inhibitions are lost and everyone joins in the fun. Jokes, poetry, and songs spring forth from even the shyest of individuals. All time is lost as these episodes can go long into the night.

     There is something special about taste of hot dogs or a steak roasted over an open fire. They taste more natural somehow. Or, how about a fresh-baked apple pie or cherry cobbler coming straight out of a Dutch oven or reflector oven? After slogging through the woods all day or battling a twenty-mile an hour head wind across Moose Lake, nothing tastes better than “Beef & Spuds” followed by a piece of fresh Dutch-oven baked German chocolate cake.

     Campfires have always been a time of ceremony and emotion. The circle of light that is formed by a fire at night is a safe haven from the surrounding darkness. The contrast of darkness and light is dramatic and sets the mood for the ceremony to follow. The fire seems to draw out our most basic emotions, amplify them and send out into the cosmos riding on sparks and smoke.

     I smile as I step out of my car. I grab a few pieces of oak from the woodpile and carry them inside. I sure hope the Air Quality Index is Blue because there will be a fire in this house tonight!

And yes, it was a Blue Air Quality Index the night I wrote this.

 
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Posted by on December 3, 2012 in Musings and Odd Thoughts

 

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