by Camela Thompson It wasn't until this last week that I understood writers who say they have to write. It never occurred to me that I had to write. On the surface, it was just something I did. Things clicked after a hellish week at work. Projects went sideways, priorities got shuffled, and I scrambled to keep up. People were more argumentative than usual. Stressful things happened with family. The week was just weird. By the time Friday rolled around, I wanted to lock myself in my house and spend the weekend writing. When things are happy, I make myself write. This was different. I had to write. As I acknowledged that I need to write, I thought about when I started writing. Of course I wrote stories as a child, but those impulses were weakened by the need to fit in, get good grades, and find a career. I no longer wrote. My perfectionist nature drowned out those old impulses and created destructive behaviors. Setting unrealistic goals creates insurmountable amounts of stress. How can you possibly succeed when the bar is set out of reach? The inevitable failures lead to more stress. I can handle large amount of stress mentally, but my body broke down. Systemic lupus made it necessary to slow down. Waaayyyy down. After years of running full speed, my body forced me to take breaks, find hobbies, and create some distance from my job. This was a good thing, but it was also really scary. I didn't slow down without a fight, and it's something I still struggle with. Realizing how little control I had over my life shattered me, creating fractures that threatened the person I had become. Admitting that I couldn't fix myself with a strict diet or by altering superficial behavior was one of the hardest things I've ever done. My first novel was written while I was very sick. A scary medical condition had me stuck at home, wondering what was going to happen next. My doctors were developing a treatment strategy, and while I knew I was in good hands, I was terrified. Over the years, I have taken solace in good writing, disappearing into alternate worlds. That particular week, reading wasn't enough. I didn't want to trust another writer to take me where I needed to go. Instead, I sat down and wrote the story I wanted to read. I made a world that conformed to my rules.
While the real world spun out of control, I created a universe that would behave exactly how I envisioned it. I could write about what terrified me in a safe place, where nothing could happen that wasn't by my design. I joke that writing is therapy, but there is truth in those words. Writing allows me to safely relive my past, weaving it into a story that makes sense to me. It's a way for me to take something that scared the hell out of me and turn it into something that empowers me. The end result doesn't resemble reality enough for people to pick out the similarities, but it's enough for me. Art heals. Do you have a creative outlet? Do you find that you turn to it during trying times?
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by Camela Thompson
On January 12th, I met with a wonderful group of women to discuss All the Pretty Bones. We chatted before the book club meeting started, and I learned that they had been gathering to discuss books for six years. It was obvious that some deep friendships had been forged, and I watched as they cheered each other on through some big life achievements. When we sat down to talk about the book, the first item to come up was the relationship between my character Olivia and her stalker, Mark. One woman looked me in the eye. "You've been stalked, haven't you? There is too much realism for you to have made this up." I nodded and went into my story - the reality that inspired All the Pretty Bones. Unfortunately, I'm never the only person at these functions who has had an experience with a stalker. The volume of women forced to live in fear can be stifling. In this particular group, half of the women had dealt with a stalker. Half. This meeting was the first time most of them had discussed their stalker with the others. That's the amazing thing about books. Even paranormal thrillers touch on enough reality for people to relate. It creates an urge to share and allow ourselves to be vulnerable. The women became animated as they opened up about their past. Most of us did not have a relationship with our stalker, but a few people were stalked by an ex who refused to move on. The majority did not report the problem to the police or file for a restraining order. Only a couple of us took legal measures because of the level of aggression displayed by the stalker. Why does this happen so frequently? I can't help but wonder what makes people believe they have the right to forcibly insert themselves into someone's life. Z.D. Gladstone's guest post explains that the behavior is steeped in delusion, but that make up for what is robbed from the victims. Every victim of stalking has their sense of security stolen from them. In a lot of cases, their home is no longer a safe haven. Shadows become menacing, solitary moments are no longer peaceful, and too many moments are spent looking for signs of danger. This doesn't stop once the stalker decides to move on. The fear clings like the stink of a skunk, cropping up just when you think you've scrubbed everything clean. Is there anything that can be done to prevent this from happening to others? Is it a lack of psychiatric intervention? One of the hardest things about having a stalker is the knowledge that he probably moved on to torment someone else. What can be done to stop the cycle? Annie gets a little obsessive about her toys. She does not share with others. by Camela Thompson I took Friday off from my day job and had a great time with Annie. We started with sleeping in (a day off essential), took a long walk around the neighborhood, and met my husband for lunch. That's right, Annie got to eat in a restaurant. Normally we don't give her people food outside of fruit and veggies, but her good behavior was rewarded with a tiny bit of bacon and a couple of french fries. Spending time with Annie isn't something new, but she's no longer overshadowed by the need to care for a geriatric dog with special needs or his giant personality. The old man was full of sass up until his final few days, bossing my husband around. I had Champ since he was a small puppy, and we went through a lot together. He patiently sat while I cried into his fur after bad breakups. After a long day, he would gently rest his chin on the couch, asking for permission to curl up beside me and watch television. He liked to throw his toys around and show off, met one or two animals in his life he didn't like, and tried his best to be the perfect dog. Except when I wasn't home. Then all bets were off and he would raid the kitchen (even opening the fridge and baby locked drawers - little devil). He was so smart it was creepy. Champ even picked out my husband for me, sleeping on his feet the first evening they met. This is saying a lot because Champ only liked seven or eight people in his life. There are times I get up in the morning and the spot Champ normally occupied jars me. It's so empty now. After thirteen years of pausing to say good morning, it feels strange to start my day without him. Missing Champ isn't something that's going to stop any time soon, but there have been a lot of good days, too. We've discovered that Annie is very intelligent. After a few years of neglecting her training, she picked it all back up. She's better with sign language than verbal commands, which is odd because her bat ears pick up the scamper of a squirrel from the other end of the house. She relishes sleeping in, prefers short walks because she's lazy, and will chase her ball as long as she feels like it (which varies from minute to minute). When I get home, I no longer am greeted by two frantic dogs. Annie prefers to roll onto her back on her bed and wait for me to greet her. Maybe she gets a little lonely during the day, but maybe not. I do know that the jealousy is gone and she's more relaxed when we're together because she's not competing for attention. I don't know what the future holds. I bring up another dog from time to time, but neither of us are ready. I have doubts that Annie will ever be ready, and that's okay. My writing assistant has a pretty full schedule without another dog to worry about. Annie was exhausted after all the fun activities
by Camela Thompson I realize that the content on my blog is pretty random. I talk about writing, marketing, my dogs, my book, and the list goes on. It's not a best practice. I should be more consistent. But life is random. I like a lot of different things, and one of them happens to be food. I have a bunch of gluten free chocolate chip recipes because there are so many different kinds - crunchy, gooey, soft, etc. The easy recipe delivers a crunchy cookie with a gooey center, but it's not vegan - I'm actually allergic to it, but it's my husband's favorite. The second recipe is vegan, a lot of work, and delivers the key fundamentals I look for in a cookie. I like some crunch with a decadent texture in the middle. Must Have Gluten Free KnowledgeGluten free baking is not at all like normal baking. Here are some handy things I learned the hard way:
Easy Gluten Free Cookies1 c palm oil (white shortening) 1 c white sugar 1 c brown sugar 2 eggs 2 tsp vanilla 2 c white rice flour 1 c brown rice flour 1 tsp baking soda 1 tsp salt 1 package Enjoy Life chocolate chips If the palm oil is brick hard, you can add a couple teaspoons of hot water (if you can get it out of the container easily, you don't need the water). With a hand mixer, soften the palm oil, then add the sugar, eggs, and vanilla. In another bowl, combine the dry ingredients (flours, baking soda, salt). Slowly add in the flour until combined. Once the batter is smooth and there aren't pockets of dry flour, use a spoon to fold in the chocolate chips. Bake at 350 degrees F for 12-15 minutes. Difficult Vegan Gluten Free Cookies12 oz palm oil (white shortening)
1 c sugar 9 dates, pitted (Medjool works well) 1/2 c water 2 tsp vanilla extract 2 T chia, ground 3.6 oz arrowroot powder or tapioca starch 7.4 oz brown rice flour 2.4 oz white rice flour 1 tsp salt 1 tsp baking soda 1 package Enjoy Life chocolate chips Soak the pitted dates in water for at least 30 minutes. Once they have softened, put them in the blender with the soak water and blend until smooth. If the palm oil is very difficult to get out of its container, you can add a couple teaspoons of hot water to get it pliable. Otherwise, use a hand mixer to soften the oil. Add the sugar, vanilla root, and date paste. Combine the dry ingredients in a separate bowl, and slowly add to the palm oil mixture. Once the batter has been combined, use a spoon to fold in the chocolate chips. Bake at 350 degrees F for 12-15 minutes. Enjoy! by Camela Thompson When I talk to friends, they ask me if I'm scared of running out of ideas. So far, the ideas haven't been a problem. I have stack of concepts with rough outlines. Getting to know the characters is harder, often happening gradually as I write out the story (I haven't figured out how to adequately "outline" a character - their little quirks and preferences gain clarity as I write). Most of my early revisions involve reworks due to solidifying the characters. I realize the character wouldn't do what is convenient for the plot and need to be coerced into action. This takes time, but it isn't what I would call difficult. The hard part is forcing myself to ignore my inner critic. I have days when a scene will pop into my head so clearly it's like a movie reel. I wish I could say this happens all the time, but in truth the majority of my days are spent talking myself into writing. Finding things to clean or fix are common stall tactics. While I nervously glance at my laptop, I have a list of recriminations firing at me from my inner critic. The second book won't live up to expectations set by the first. The story isn't good enough. You don't belong. You aren't good enough. A bit dysfunctional, isn't it? But I put it out there because I don't believe I'm the only person who is self critical, and I realize that I am a perfectionist - and I don't mean that in the bragging I-do-everything-well kind of way. This is more of an I'm-glad-I-have-a-licensed-therapist confession. It is very hard to turn off the inner critic while doing anything - even laundry. I'll be honest and admit to some abnormal behaviors. I have a sorting system to aid with efficiency. It's my least favorite chore because it takes so long and it's easy to get distracted. Getting distracted means that I forget about laundry and it sits too long while I perform 15 other activities. If it sits too long, it means it's wrong. I am really lucky because my husband has taken charge of that chore. My writing assistant reminding me that it's break time. If I don't listen, she will make writing harder. If I'm weird about laundry, you don't want to know what goes through my head while I'm at work or writing. It makes me very good at my job as an analyst - I'm good at managing timelines and mistakes are rare because of all of the double checking that I do. When it comes to writing and artwork, it's more of a hindrance than a help. Creative processes are stunted by a rigid or formal structure. A different part of the brain is used for weaving a story than editing - and the analytical part of my brain has a hard time letting go of being in control. I'm constantly looking for grammatical quirks and personality flaws in my characters.
The hardest part for me is the beginning of a novel. If I let myself, I will spend months reorganizing chapters, rewriting, and editing. It's my abyss. Every author is told that the first chapter has to grab the reader's attention. The analyst in me has embraced that concept and taken it a little too far. Nanowrimo (a November goal of writing 50,000 words in a month) was a great exercise for me. There were days that I wanted to do nothing but edit the crappy chapter I had just written, but to hit my daily quota, I was forced to ignore the chapter and keep going. When I was finished with the 50,000 words, I allowed myself to go back and make the edits that were nagging me. And you know what? Those "awful" chapters weren't bad. They needed rework, but they were still necessary to move the plot forward. When I can let go of the need for perfection, the creative part of my brain takes me to places that I wouldn't have thought possible. Strange creatures come to life, dark things unfold, and my characters shine despite the cracks in their armor. If I can bring what I learned from NANOWRIMO back into practice, my stories will be better off. Do you struggle with perfectionism? Do you feel it has aided or held you back? by Camela Thompson When I look at 2014 I would like to say it was a year full of nothing but awesomeness, but that wouldn't be an accurate portrayal of life. A lot of great things happened, but every day is filled with ups and downs. Some things are easier to let go of than others. I'd like to say that pain is in our life to make the good moments brighter, but that seems trite. Things don't always happen for a reason. I choked up a little bit after my husband and I purchased our new phones. It was a reasonable time to clean up my list of contacts. Two people were deleted because it's not possible to call them again - they had passed away. My husband and I lost Champ. Sometimes I expect to see Champ when I wake up. He liked sleeping in and would give me a dirty look when I got up to get ready for work. I miss his indignant glare as much as his happy dance when he greeted me at the door. These things sting, but some incredible things happened this year. My first book was published (not the first I wrote - that will never see the light of day). I learned a lot of things the hard way, but the publishing process is no longer a scary mystery. I became friends with people who leave me in awe with their wit, intelligence, and talent. Old friendships have been rekindled, and something as simple as a book brought me closer to family. I feel lucky I got to know my sister-in-law better. She's kind, hilarious, and a wealth of knowledge. Most of the books I have read that I rave about were a result of her recommendation. 2014 wasn't perfect, but there is a lot to be thankful for. I'm not sure what 2015 will bring, but I've started my list of goals. Book two of The Hunted series has gone to beta readers. There are at least two other books that stand a reasonable chance of being published. I would like to spend more time with friends and family, and balance my time between my day job and my writing a little better. I didn't do the best job of exercising and taking care of myself this year. In 2015 I need to figure out how to fit exercise in with writing and work - and maybe sneak in a vacation or two.
I hope 2014 was a good year! What are your goals? |
Camela ThompsonFreelance writer and Dark urban fantasy author featuring vampires with bite. My BooksCategories
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