Hope in a Pig's Ear.

All too often, my husband is tending to the colourful growth of his garden when he notices a strange bit of expired flesh poking through the earth. It looks like and once was the ear of a pig. Though it is surprising it is nonetheless expected. Our dog believes in multiplying his wealth by burying all potentially great snacks in the garden. So far it has not resulted in a fine supply of bacon and roastable pork, but with his love, care and confidence, who are we to discourage him.

We continue to tend to the mundane and exciting chores of the home with all due care and abandon, always hoping for signs of refreshment and promise, but renaining content with reality.

Our dog, Dougal, continues to follow his lines of possibility with care and diligence. I hope his system of dreaming extends to the roast meal he longs for, and that science will not push her dreaded bars upon him.

never ashamed.........................119:6

Shame is the cloak that regards the guilty, or the confused.
The tough and uninformed may feel no shame as they see no shadows, heed no voice and fear no rebuke.
Yet the tender and listening heart may be oversensitised to throwaway comments, and shiver.
The tender and listening sometimes need to hear the end of the story to lay shame to rest. The end is forgiving and full of promise.
The one with a promise in hand is strong and full of peace.
Peace does not live with shame.
Peace is the fruit of fellowship, of companionship, of the heart that lay open for instruction and forgiveness.
It will drown out disappointment, confusion and dread, rinse away tears and the despair that may appear with delay.
And the heart becomes light and free.
In truth it shall be free.

stuck up world

It's a curious world for the author who either rubs against the contract by carrying the dream or tilts with her own place in the world. What rights do the dreamers have? All at once there is the option of self publishing or accepting the fine margins of the editor's market. I recently received a sweet rejection; my title didn't fit their market and they were only accepting two manuscripts for the year. So you think you can write? Absolutely, if you are free enough to part with the hand that feeds and trust your passion. Life could be better than that.
The manuscript itself seemed polished enough, according to appraisals. I will toss it back in the mail to other publishers, and move on. I put my ear to the sky for another book to work on. I have several in process, if writing is ever so sterile as to call it a process. I was once told to write the book that begs to be written, so I was asking. A story that was started about ten years ago piggy backed me as I listened, it pleaded and growled as I tried to look at the others. I've loved it and hated it over the years. It's made me laugh and cry, but was never quite right. I had hacked it and started over so many times that it almost felt redundant. But I still care about the main character.
I must make him live.
It's all in my hands.

ladders of staggers

Trying to fall into the place of hope is precious and precarious all at once. Hope can be the strongest rail but breaks like plasticine if the supports waver. Where do you find substance for this strange bridge, that is as certain as last night's dream but as fragile as a cloud. When it beats for you, nothing will stop the pace and speed. When it falters nothing will scream so silently. It is decidedly unreal and certain.
This is the hope that rocks beneath the face of a writer, taunting, teasing and taming the hums of doubt.
Nothing can speak so softly.
Nothing can fill you with such dread.

Another trip with the travel partner of hope seems so terrifying. She will not let you stop, yet offers few words. She laughs and it is for you to determine the mockery or love in her voice. She can break your insecurities into feathers, or sing them into the bird that will finish the journey. Your heart alone decides the flight. You decide the volume and courage. You decide to put the fears to sleep and hear the pulse of hope over the crackling lightening and tears of history.

If this is your story, you choose the higher voice and refuse to look down.
If this is your story, you will soar.

Writer's Block

Once I thought writer's block was a variety of Lego or a shady patch on the road. It's neither, I've decided. There are quiet zones in the most passionate writer where your creative outflow slows to a standstill, your main character won't speak to you and the music freezes to silence. It's not like sadness or doubt, so much as quietness, and that can be a good thing too.

Music needs space to allow the mind to wait and soak, even small notes beg attention and drag us away from contemplation. I thought my MC was sulking and had lost me, that writing was a task I wouldn't choose. But my MC waited as days passed and spoke in time. It was all about allowing colour to bend and break, until the plain white resurfaced as a rainbow.

I need to love the silence as much as the days that pound without space. I want to remember that life is made of seasons, mumbling days of droning will pour out their scrambled notes and force us to embrace the stillness with the same kindness we gave to the moments of beauty. And even to believe that the stillness is as beautiful, because it chose to make us wait. When we are no longer slaves to completeness, when the noise is a friend and the silence a backdrop for paused spaces, we are free to be paced by eternity.

Nanowrimo

It's that time of year again! The season for every passionate writer to up tools, duck heads and pound the keys for thirty days. This year I am planning to write a sequal to last years venture. The star will be Ashlin's twin, Ava.
Already many writers, authors and wannanbes have logged in, found a few friends and started plotting, and scheming. I have character dossiers, timelines and research started; everything except the actual writing. The first line is nestled warmly on the tips of my fingers, ready to pounce and run.
Feel free to add me in if you want to journey with me.
So, fast forward past Halloween and jump into November for an essential world of storytelling and networking,
see you there  :)

writer's block

I had never thought that my headspace would be paralyzed or shut down, especially by a virus. We are shifting out of the homeplace of influenza and so homesick. Writing has been more than a refuge, it's a heartland and island that is known only to my dreams and designs.

Like a thief, a fog landed and stole my sense of certainty.
I was so certain I would always run on inspiration.
Shadows have no preference or manners. It's easy to assume they set the tone and may never shift.
The shadows own and predict nothing.
Possibly, the enforced rest encourages reflection and re-evaluation that can delight rather than devour.

But the real  world that stares at your complacency reminds you of the person that once was active and productive. The darkness can serve to remind you of sunnier days, and the memory of sunlight.
God doesn't stop His plans and purposes because of your perceptions, there will be a way out.
It's only about time, about patience and remembering the distance between a visiting feeling and those that you choose to embrace and offer a home.

Jupiter Spinning away

At last Jupiter is spinning over my head and Ashlin is finding her way into the hearts of earthlings.It seems as if some time soon I am going to have to come out of my cave and promote it, it's not as there is anything out there that Jupiter hasn't seen. People have faces and opinions but that's okay. Each face and opinion is to be welcomed. Each person comes with stories and storms...and that is where the story began. Stories and storms can't be locked up, though they can hide in times of war, until there is peace, until there is a word of reassurance, that wants a day out, that needs a place to speak.

Caves are brilliant places for creating new worlds, but apparently you are not supposed to live there. I love reading the story of 'The Priest's Grotto', and climbing into a world of expectation and silence. Eventually reality bite and the light must fall again. I'm polishing my next work; 50,00 in and my YA speculative fiction is finding wings.I've been happily head down editing. It's the strange way of the introvert, isolating, enjoying the untapped worlds of dreams, geographies and problems, until breath is breathed into them and invisible trolls become the carriers of messages and mysteries. I could leave my world to grow its own legs and introduce itself to schools and people, but I'm hearing voices in the wind and on the web reminding me that what you breathe to life, you also owe exposure. I love thoughts dreams and pathways but the offer nothing if not unveiled. Jupiter has never chosen to be enshrouded by darkness. I owe it to her to bring her to light and sparks, as Jupiter only feels safe with storms.

My Amazon Author page

I'm a wife of one, mother of three teens, emergency nurse, writer of non-fiction (health and parenting) and love writing young adult speculative fiction.
I live at the base of a magnificent mountain range in Victoria, Australia where we have many beautiful parrots, lyrebirds, koalas, platypus and lush forests.
I love birdcalls, owls, spiders, but mostly the sound of my children, talking, singing and playing music.
I believe in possibility, a magnificent Creator and enjoy all aspects of His work.

Thirteen year old Ashlin Piggot has the world watching her, as lumps, bumps, spots and limbs are sprouting out of previously safe places. In spite of her parent's assurances that she is 'normal', her brother happily uses every creative option to highlight Ashlin's changes. However she has a plan to escape this turmoil, and it all begins in Jupiter.

From the Author

My Spinning Jupiter is intended to ease the transition into adolescence. There are many books about pimples, periods, mood changes and peer acceptance, but they are usually non-fiction. 

This book contains the facts within fiction, embracing the discomfort of uninvited change with humour and handles. Life seasons can be explained within question and answer form, but sometimes it's easier to walk with someone else. Ashlin finds the rush of changes scary and out of her control, but softened by company, conversation and a few laughs. 

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