Hubby's just got into the shower and I just got out. He wants to go down to the dental hospital. Oh, what fun. That gives me just enough time for an entry in my blog. Not that it goes in there until I actually get online. As I mentioned to one of the ladies in Boot Camp, I use WordPad to draft my writing. Later, I use the spell check, etc. I find all that stuff distracting when I'm trying to write. The baby is sleeping, so I have no excuses. I can sit here and tap out an entry. Only problem is... What do I write about?

I know we were given room for freewriting, which I did yesterday. I couldn't bring myself to tap out a poem, not on this keyboard, anyway. For me I think there's something about sitting with a pen in hand for poetry. I do believe writing with pen and paper is different to using a keyboard or word processor. There's somehow a closer connection to the heart, or perhaps I'm simply being fanciful. I know I have often cried when writing in my handwritten journal. I rarely do that here in a computer journal, although if I'm honest there have been moments. The physical act of moving your hand, the one you favour, into those scrawls and swirls, it does something, accesses a different part of the brain, the heart. I must use both hands to type here. Surely there is something different.

I know in workshops, there's definitely a real sense of raw emotion in the writing we share. There's a different feel to the stuff we read aloud that was written previously at home, or wherever. The voice is more stilted, perhaps. I just know the writing we read straight after penning it is far more emotive and there's a certain energy in it that just doesn't happen with other writing. Perhaps it's more about group dynamics. The fact you're sitting there knowing you're about to read what you're writing, perhaps that shifts something else in the brain. That knowing makes you aware of your words. Perhaps you censor as you write. I know I've shocked people with the things I've written in those workshops. They've approached me later, at the end of the class, and shook my hand, thanked me for being so brave.

But I don't think it's really so brave. I'm just letting the pen and the heart rule. I'm bypassing the brain, or at least the censor, and accessing the part of me that touches and hurts and remembers and laughs. I'm not listening to that strict voice of reason, of instruction, of governing and ruling over my thoughts. I assign that voice to another task, for another time. I let the ink flow along with the blood in my veins. The beat of my heart thuds out a rhythm, a voice, a lullaby that whispers secrets and takes me places I wanted to forget, or thought I had forgotten. This can and does happen when writing here at the keyboard, but it comes out raw and in gushing chunks that will needs sifting and sorting later. But there's that energy I recognise in work written by hand. Poetry has that energy; though I'm sure someone would disagree and say they compose all their poetry on the word processor. But I can bet it would change the moment they had to read it aloud.

Once standing in front of a crowd words have the ability to tell you they're all wrong. You know how they really want to come out when you stand to speak them out in front of a crowd. I've altered poetry this way and then noted the changes after reading the words aloud. This happens with fiction, too, but not as much. Poetry is down with the pulse of the people, not stuck in some writer's imagination. It begins there, but it does not remain. The words become alive once they leave the poet's lips.

Anyway, I had to complete this in dribs and drabs. I hope it has continuance. My hubby kept interrupting and talking to me while I worked.

Dance - write a poem about the movement of nature.

Poetry isn't necessarily a strong point in my writing life, although I have had poetry published. I tend to enjoy writing poetry as a group activity. There's something about poetry that feels more public to me. The best of my poetic side comes out when I'm with another group of people and we're challenged in some way to wield our words to a certain form or limit. It's tough going to simply sit down and write poetry. Well, it is for me; at least.

I can write about dance, though. As a child my mother put me into ballet classes like so many other little girls, including herself. She had dreams for me that I could never fulfil. Not that I couldn't dance. In fact I took to ballet like one born to it. The graceful lines and shapes the teacher instructed us came easily to me. Holding our feet so, stretching, following the rhythm of the music, learning the steps and the French names for them. All felt so normal to me. I also enjoyed the routine of the practice sessions, the satisfying stretch in my muscles, the liquid feel in my limbs once we'd warmed up and the chance to lose myself in the melding of music and movement once again.

By the end of my first year my efforts were rewarded with a scholarship, a blessing to my mother who felt the pull of paying for the lessons on her purse strings. The scholarship covered half the year of tuition. My mother was elated. But the girl who'd been my closest friend, had told me about the ballet lessons, danced with me in the examination, and had been so excited for me to come along, she wasn't so happy.

From the day the teacher announced the Honours for my examination this friend acted like I no longer existed. I tried to approach her, but she would turn away. I tried to visit, but she would act like there was no one home. At seven years of age that kind of treatment stung.

I continued for another year enjoying the bliss of music and motion, the costumes, the beat and rhythm, the new challenges and the sense of purpose. But my fellow class mates did not enjoy my company so much. I gather to really make a go of such a competitive activity you need to develop a tough hide. But at seven eight and nine I really think that unnecessary. Can't children simply enjoy an activity for the pure fluid grace that flows in their growing bodies? It seems not.

By the time we approached the second year examinations I saw more of the parent pushing I so detest in competitive anything. Sneers and derision aimed at me and all because I found ballet so enjoyable, and therefore did not struggle with the steps or fumble with keeping to the music. I firmly believe if you enjoy something it's most likely because you have a natural tendency toward that activity. Even if you don't, if you enjoy it you should simply be left to do it, the way you enjoy it.

Anyway, after the second year exams I also came top of the class, but the scholarship could not be award two years in a row. Fair enough, I was only too happy for someone else to feel honoured. The cattiness continued all through practice sessions for the concert we held at the end of each year. I endured a lot, for a small child. Parents can be so unthinkingly cruel. One girl cornered me in the change room and said the nastiest things to me, all of them untrue. Later the girl approached me with a gift and an apology, unprompted by her mother. Seems she acted that way because her mother had instructed her to.

At the start of the third year I braced myself for more, but a young girl started classes who truly had what you'd call two left feet. The poor thing had no sense of timing or any inclination toward gracefulness. Perhaps her parents thought the lessons would help. In my opinion they couldn't have done anything worse.

The snide remarks once aimed at me for my skill, were now shot over at the poor girl who tripped and gaffed her way through every lesson. I'm not sure why, but I took her under my wing. I praised her every attempt and told her to ignore the others. This did not earn me any more friends. This girl didn't last long, though and we all breathed a little easier. But as the third year exams approached the cat fighting escalated. No on wanted to partner me because it would make them look bad. I recall walking home one afternoon and knowing I would not continue with the ballet lessons.

Everything in me wept at this. I loved the feel of the music in my veins, the way I could disappear into the nothingness of motion and the endless beauty of the timed movements. All I wanted was to dance, but to dance without the competition. I made a decision that afternoon. When I arrived home I told my mother. She wept while I stood stoic, and unmoving. My decision was made. My poor mother had to live with it, no matter how she harangued me.

I never regretted making that decision, turning my back on ballet, but at times I'd love to simply dance for the sake of it. I'd love to move and stretch and feel that beauty of grace again, but not so I'd receive a mark or be derided for my talent. I'd love to dance because I can and it feels so good.

Check in for goals:

As far as the goals for this week gone by went, I'm pleased to say I did achieve them. I spent two good sessions setting myself up for the project I have in mind. I transferred all the articles into one file and read through each of them. I identified which ones to use for the book itself and which to keep for promoting the book. It's a good feeling. I know I already posted the goals in the entry on goals, but here are my goals for this week:

Goal/Week Two:

Revise five articles, one per week day.

Outline two (or more) articles.

I've revised these goals, though. I've already figured I need two more articles for my non-fiction book. But I can attempt the rest of on this list for this week.

There was something about being passionate in the prompts for this week. If only I could find where I put that file. Anyway, my memory will serve me as best it can for now. Why am I passionate about writing?

I suppose it's always been in me, this desire to write, to express myself in this way. My mum taught me to read before I even started school. I recall the smiles on the faces of my teachers. As a little kid I felt sure they simply loved me, but now as an adult with children of my own, I understand that smile as one of pure joy. I had discovered the joy of reading. And it meant one less kid for the teacher to struggle with and drag through the process. Mum didn't set out to teach me to read before I even started school. She just loved stories and books herself. She'd sit us down each evening and read us a tale. I still remember how it felt all cosy in bed while her voice narrated the tales, the way she'd leave us hanging at the end of a chapter. No matter how much we begged she wouldn't read any more. Not until the next night. There were times I felt sure I'd never fall asleep for sheer suspense.

Of course I did fall asleep and dream wild scenes and strange imaginings under the safety of my bed covers. I recall staying up late to read until mum insisted I switch off the light. I continued this practice into my teen years. But that leads me back to the passion I've always had for words, writing, reading. It's just always been there. We played word games and toyed with the whole concept of what things meant. In primary school I won awards for my stories. The teachers would beam at me with that knowing smile and I felt the warmth of their happiness. But no one ever suggested I become a writer.

Dad encouraged my love of drawing clothing designs and mum tried to channel me into the traditional fields of typing, shorthand and business studies. My high school years were a mess of tumultuous emotions and drug use that ended with me getting kicked out before I finished my senior year. I'm not proud of that. I'm also not proud that I never learnt to accept the part of myself that was smart, clever, brainy, or whatever you want to call it. None of the other kids were as bright as me. I abused this part of myself, though, and the time I spent using drugs did damage, too. I just wanted to fit in. Being brilliant and finding the work easy made me stand out. There were other events that shaped this time of my life, too, but I prefer not to go there right now.

Needless to say I missed any opportunity of going to uni. Instead I ended up living with some guy out in the sticks and riding around on the back of his motorbike whenever I could. I was unemployed and didn't care about anything much at all. But it was there, in those moments of boredom, that I rediscovered the joy of writing.

I recall sitting in that picturesque setting and pouring out my heart into this thick notebook I had from my final school year. I'd only used the book for the couple of weeks until I was dismissed. I found another use for the book. I wrote stories, plotted murders, described my setting and tried to find a way to end the aching loneliness I felt inside. But there were never the right words for that. Not then. When I finally left the guy and moved back to the coast life changed for me again. I was travelling, making plans to see Australia with my best friend. We realised our dream and drove off early one morning with promises of how long we'd be gone. But I never did return. On the other side of the country I met my Saviour and my husband and started a family. Those things kept me busy for a while, but it was the urge inside that drove me back to the page and to pick up my pen. Here I am now, still writing. Best leave it here, even though I'm not sure I actually answered the question.

What makes your soul sing?

The scent of the ocean, the taste of its salt on my lips, the briny breeze lifting the curls off my brow, the sound of babies laughing as shore waves splash and roll over their stubby bodies, the roar of the waves on the shore, the sliding cool sands that grows warm as I dig in my toes, the tightness of my skin as the water dries on my cheeks and shoulders, the sunlight beading on wave lips as they crest and froth before they curl and crash along the golden shore, the heat on my face as the orange sun sinks into the blue horizon, the memories of my father teaching me to swim.

My soul sings when I connect with music, that moment when you hear a lyric and sing at the same pitch. Your voice and the singer's melody disappear and there is only one sound. You know you've tuned into the sound of their voice. You've done something incredible, stretched and grown in your vocal skills. My soul sings when I hear a line that speaks to me beyond mere words. When the lyricist knew what I was thinking when they penned that line. My soul sings when I worship in church along with the band and the choir. When I feel the connection made and drift into my own nothingness and God is everything.

My soul sings when I say something the right way and hubby understands. When he smiles at me and I see that line above the corner of his mouth, the part that's usually hidden in his moustache. I see the light of understanding in his eyes and we know so much more about each other than simply who we are. We have become one and feel the melding of our spirits.

My soul sings when I write words that take on a life of their own. I toss them onto paper of screen and they are no longer my own. The words sing a song of joy, or learning, of laughter, of peace, of knowledge, of passion or tears.

My soul sings when I touch my baby's face while he lays in my arms feeding, his eyes closed and fingers curled around my thumb. My soul sings when I spend time chatting with my teens, when we laugh and cry and grow together.

My soul sings when I spend time with my mother. We chat through the internet on messenger. My soul sings because she gave me the gift of literature. We speak about books, about kids, about the things that matter. My soul sings when I read books and articles that speak to me. I read for information, but my soul hungers after words that inspire. My soul sings when I scrawl ink over the pages of my journal.

I lost track of time then, but was interrupted by my big son. Oh well, that will do for tonight.

It's a day for music. Maybe it's because it's Sunday or just that I'm actually getting a chance to do this in the day time, but I'm opting for an easy entry. Right now the sunlight still streams into my window, all slanted and glowing as it comes through the Venetian blinds. My daughter clips her nails in her bedroom. I hear the snip and snap of them from here. My big son is out walking the dog. He's been so busy lately the poor thing hasn't had her regular exercise. The baby is sleeping, thankfully.

Right now there is no music playing, but perhaps I'll check to see what hubby has in the player; The Paul Simon Anthology, disc one. I've let it play. I haven't heard it in a while. Actually, my CD collection is abysmal. Once I had records, remember them? It was a vast collection of new and second hand vinyl albums and singles. Now we have CDs. There was a long space of time when I hardly listened to music or purchased any. I can't fully account for that time or even why I avoided buying music, but the sad fact was I did. Most of the music I listened to was either on the radio or Christian music, and most of that from bands in my own church.

But none of this is ultimately very inspiring to write to. I can't seem to find any really good Christian music in the Christian book shops. It all sounds so airy, ethereal, indistinct, especially after the kind of stuff the rock bands in our church play. I like all kinds of music, but insipid is something I rarely go for. Or Christian music has that bubblegum pop sound to it that kind of irks me. I just don't go for that sound. It's too plastic, or something. But then I feel that way about a lot of stuff they play on the radio. For someone my age, I'm turning 40 in two weeks, I cannot stand all that eighties nostalgia like so many other people in my age demographic. It just wasn't that great in my opinion.

So, what do I like? I enjoy a little Mozart, Beethoven, or a mixed classic CD I play quite often. I enjoy that there are no lyrics. Sometimes lyrics are distracting. I can play Ravel's Bolero over and over when I have a fiction project going. But I don't know much about classic music, to be honest, in case you thought I was some kind of a music snob. I also enjoy some hard and heavy Led Zeppelin and other bands whose names escape me at this point. I don't own any, but like to grab CDs from the library when I see them. U2 is also pretty good for writing or listening to in the car and zoning out. But the tape player in the car is broken. I enjoy Crowded House, those two New Zealand Finn boys who used to be Split Enz so long ago. Those guys really know how to play music and their lyrics are pure poetry.

Lyrics is one reason I love Joni Mitchell. We only have her Hits CD, but there are other really great tunes of hers I'd love to own. In particular I enjoy Chelsea Morning. Songs like that make me want to write my own lyrics. I get into a bit of Van Morrison, Carole King, Coldplay, classic guitar, and an odd assortment of music we've collected here and there.

But most of the time I prefer the sound of the street in the day, or night. If it's raining, well that's even better. There’s the slush and splash of car tyres on the wet road, the spatter of the drops on the window, the lulling rhythm of the water hitting the roof. I can get into that. But I love to wake early and watch the morning appear in the view from my window as I write. I listen for the black cockatoos fly over squawking and screeching to the rising sun. Anyway, the baby has woken and my time is up.

The list of this week's prompts from Kai is somewhere in my file on this Boot Camp, but do you think I can find it? Organising isn't a strong point in my life. I know I saved it there, but remembering what I called it is another thing completely. Anyway, I remembered what I wanted to write about for tonight as I started flicking through the pages of Pen on Fire by Barbara DeMarco-Barrett.

There's a quote on the tope of page 45. It reads "Much of the activity we think of as writing is, actually, getting ready to write." The reference is Gail Godwin, "Rituals and Readiness," in Neil Baldwin and Diane Osen, eds., THE WRITING LIFE.

After writing up my assignment for the question on rituals the thoughts stayed with me. As I prepared for bed last night, the teeth cleaning, the setting things right so the morning won't be so fractured and stressed, the topping up my glass of water and checking the kids kind of things, my mind continued to dwell on the subject. It occurred to me some time today, as I wheeled around the shops with my baby sleeping in his pram, that I don't just sit down and write, at least not very often; most of the day, as I work and play, several thoughts at one time are spiraling and twirling through my brain. Once I'm given a task or assignment I find myself pondering what it means, what do I think, what I will say. There's a process of letting my creative juices steam up the pot, so to speak. I heat up the topic and wait to see what rises. I tend to believe you can say something on just about anything given a short space of time to think about it. But there is also a great challenge in producing something with hardly a thought at all.

These thoughts led me into the truth about what I really do when it comes to writing. I may just sit and write, but my brain is constantly working on problems, ideas, sifting for better ways to express myself, seeking out the perfect word for any given situation, pondering short story ideas, thinking on which articles to use in my project (see goals). I am constantly letting these thoughts roll over and over slowly in my mind. My brain is on simmer all the time. I don't switch the heat off, even in my dreams. At times I find the perfect solution or answer to a slight dilemma in my dreams. More often the answer I'm seeking will hit me when I'm in the shower or driving the car. I also tend to day dream when I'm feeding the baby, at least if I don't have a book or magazine handy. But the best place to find these aha moments, for me, is while cooking.

I've been cooking for a long time. My mother had me stand on stools to stir contents of pots, mix ingredients into bowls, sift flour, knead dough, poke holes in pastry, or measure into cups and scales from the moment I could reach the bench. I'm not sure just when it happened but I really got into this cooking thing. By the time I was kicked out of school I knew I wanted to be a chef. It was clear when I turned up for the apprentice chef interview that the guy liked me. The fact I was the only applicant who knew my way around a kitchen might have had something to do with it. But it was more likely the fact I lived five minutes away that really swung him around to picking me for his first year apprentice. I think he was really surprised to find I could actually cook.

He taught me many things, but did not fill out my paperwork. So when he had good reason, another long story, he sacked me and didn't feel obligated to complete my training. I still cooked, though. By now it was simply part of me. The head chef kitchen banter fuelled my desire to buy cook books. I whipped up whatever appealed from those books. I didn't realise it at the time, but I would go into the zone while cooking, too.

As anything can grow tired from overuse, the whole idea that I've been cooking day in and day out for so many years now grated on me. I imagined I did not enjoy it as much as I once had. When I found out I was pregnant last year hubby suggested the kids help out with the cooking more. I was into that and felt I needed the break. I could nap more and relax, which I did. When I had the baby life was hectic. My lovely teens cooked for the first three months of their new sibling's life. I thank them for their kindness every day. But the first time I actually stood to cook a meal, the very feel of that wooden spatula in my hand, the biting scent of onions, the sizzle of golden olive oil, the texture of chicken flesh under my fingertips, transported me somewhere. It was like stepping through an open door. I knew then what I'd not realised for so many years; cooking time was when I did my most productive and exciting day dreaming when it came to my writing.

I need to cook the family meal at night. It's part of my creative process. Even though I still look forward to the break the kids give me when they help out, I tend to be a bit more protective of my need to prepare the family meals now. Anyway, my time is well and truly up and I didn’t even notice.

"Contrary to what many of you might imagine, a career in letters is not without its drawbacks - chief among them the unpleasant fact that one is frequently called upon to actually sit down and write." Fran Lebowitz, METROPLOITAN LIFE

This quote is from page 126 of Pen on Fire by Barbara DeMarco-Barrett, which I reviewed last night. When I read it the truth of it struck me and I decided I'd write something in response to it for one of my blog spots this week. Dawn posed the question to me about how I can write so much in ten minutes. She also asked how I can write so well in such a short space. I'm flattered she thinks I write well, but the speed has only to do with practice. If you hang around me long enough you'll hear that heaps. Perhaps the writing well part comes into play with practice, too. I know practice is meant to make perfect, according to the saying, but when it comes to writing I believe it simply makes you better. None of us will ever reach perfection, not in this life. Perhaps we can get pretty close if we keep on writing, though.

There was a time when I dreamed of being able to write. I imagined I'd have endless spans of time to fill with my industry. It didn't take me long to realise those long spaces of time were never going to arrive. As a busy wife and mother my time is in constant demand. As the years went by I have to say it's gotten a little easier, but children will always need you in some shape or form. Perhaps it just means your time is demanded in a different way. Once I came to that understanding I figured I'd need to make the time I craved.

Instead of moaning the fact I didn't have any time I started getting to bed at a decent time so I could rise early. I'm actually more creative in the mornings. I took advantage of the whole Julia Cameron thing and began morning pages. I would recommend this to anyone, at least to try, see what benefit it gives you. For me it was what I needed. Her philosophy is about breaking through blockages. I did not embrace everything she had to say and actually refused to do some of the exercises. It's my life. But, the very act of sitting and writing those horrendous morning pages really did something in me.

I must've done them for some five years. As soon as I began writing morning pages I was able to work at many of the other projects I'd wanted to attempt. Something freed within, the writer in me, perhaps? While I would recommend morning pages I would also say they are definitely not for everyone. You should try them to see if that discipline does anything for you. I also suggest that you be at least a bit persistent and not give up too easily before you decide morning pages aren't for you.

The very act of doing them tapped into something inside me and I was able to achieve the projects I dreamed of. Now, since finding out I was pregnant last year around the end of August, I realised I'd moved into another chapter of my writing life. I needed all the sleep I could get, for now, and gave up the morning pages. Instead of doing what I vaguely feared, that I'd lose my productivity, I found that nothing much really changed. The morning pages had served their purpose. I could now sit and write whenever I felt like doing so. I could write and be happy about what I'd written. The exercise I mentioned the other night also helped me toward this freedom, which put my inner creative and inner critic firmly in their correct places.

I know there's still a long way to go for me as a writer. There's plenty left to learn and experience, but I am firmly on that road now. The family accepts that I'm a writer and not only that I write. They know there are times when I will need to be here at this computer. Now I have to begin the process all over again with my new baby. But there are lessons I've learnt with the others that I won't fear employing to help me reach my writing goals with this little one. I gave myself a break, just writing in my journal, but with this Boot Camp I've felt myself ready to return to writing and achieving my goals. I'm done for the night.

What's your routine? Assignment 3b:

Strange kinds of question as far as the assignments go. I had to read and reread several times to make sure I actually got what Kai was asking, but I think I have a handle on it now.

When I sit down to write it all depends on what I'm writing. For these ten minute spots I tend to just get a glass of water, or a coffee, or ask one of my teens to make one for me, come to the computer, pick a topic and start tapping on the keyboard. I don't go into a lot of deep thought. I let the tips of my fingers connect to the thoughts flowing from my brain. This became a habit when I started keeping a journal on my computer. I'd tap out ten minutes, or more if the mood struck me, as an aid to getting my typing speed up. But it helped me just run loose with my thoughts.

For the most part I simply wrote about my family, every day boring stuff. There was nothing in it to excite or thrill anyone. As I continued to peck away and let my mind go, the process became easier and easier. As my speed improved so did the connection delay between my fingertips and thoughts.

At some point I pushed myself to put this whole process before a live audience. I started keeping this computer generated journal online. When I go back and look at early entries I see the raw edges of my thinking just hanging out there for the world to see. Over time my style, or voice developed and I felt more at ease with the reader, having an awareness of them. Yet, I no longer felt so shy about them and started opening up, revealing more and more of myself. The more I actually revealed the sharper my writing became. Writing personal stuff is easy. It requires less thought than actual fiction or articles. But that's how I approach something like this.

Aftward I reread the entire piece and look for ways to improve what I've written, but nothing heavy. For fiction I tend to just leave things as they are until the big edit later. If I'm about to submit it to a blog site or to an editor, I do a spell check and read over for better ways to express what I'm really trying to say. Other than that I'll let it go and hope for the best.

With articles I tend to make a short outline beforehand, either the day before or just prior to sitting down to write. I make the outline short shots of info. Each line might be little more than a couple of words, a thought I want to express. When I come to writing the article I then flesh out and elaborate on what is already down on the page, a sentence at a time. I don't really do much more than that. I sit and I write.

When I set out to write a session of fiction I do much the same thing. I’ve already spent some journal sessions in my specific journal, the one I have marked out for that project and outline the entire story, chapter by chapter, write up character descriptions and behaviours, and so on. This can take any length of time, but I seem to work best when it becomes the focus of everything I’m doing for that week.

Before the actual writing session I spend some time, five minutes usually, just writing where I am with the story, the characters, any troubles or questions I want to pursue, etc. By the time I sit down to write I’m ready. I know where I’m up to, what’s happening, or not happening, and I can just go for it. I find putting on the timer an excellent way of pushing myself to write hard and fast, so I feel I don't have time to ponder the details or worry over what is what. If I don't know something I write xxxx. That will do until later when I go through and edit.

The actual process of writing is the same, though. I sit on my bum and start writing. I don't stop until the timer goes off. It matters little if I never use what I wrote. The point is I grew into the story more. I discovered something about the characters. I showed up and let the writing have a place in my day. When the timer goes off, and I’m finished for the day, I again sit and write in my specific journal. I just write about how I’m feeling. Did I achieve what I set out to? Add my word count and that kind of thing.

I tend to write in short bursts of time for fiction. I set the timer for two forty minute sessions and write like blazes until the timer beeps. I use the microwave oven timer, because it requires me to get up from the writing and go turn it off. I use this break to hang out washing, make phone calls or whatever else is a priority for the day. These tasks never take up a long time. Then I set the timer again and go at the story.

I find using outlines for novels so much better than just free-writing, which I did once for an entire first draft of a novel. I get great ideas and can use the free-writing I do, but outlining makes me more productive. I used to think it was too hard and resisted outlining for ages. The day I did it I was ever so grateful for the skeleton to work off. I can still change things, the outline isn’t written in stone. There’s just a sense of knowing what to do next that removes any hesitation or need to sit there for ages and wonder what to write.

I hope this answers the question. I'm out of time now and have to go collect my big boy from work experience.

Ten minutes. Okay, the clock has started. Pen on Fire by Barbara DeMarco-Barrett, rocketed onto the Los Angeles Times bestseller list in three weeks. Although aimed at writing mothers anyone with limited time might find inspiration in this easy to read book. The short chapters are ideal for reading while breastfeeding the baby, or while waiting in the car to collect children from school. Each chapter ends with an easy to achieve fifteen minute exercise. These are challenging and thought provoking.

The fifteen minute rule is something DeMarco-Barrett promotes and practices herself. Anyone can find fifteen minutes in their day to free-write, make lists or outline stories and articles. Taking advantage of these short spots of time we can achieve any writing goal we desire. Peppered liberally with quotes from bestselling novelists and successful journalists Pen on Fire gives a sense of intimacy with their shared secrets, fears and methods.

Not only time management, but all aspects of the writing life feature throughout the book. Although I've yet to complete my first reading, this book would make a welcome addition to my library of writing resources. At only half way through the information already fuels my desire to write more on a wide variety of topics. Personal favourites so far are the chapters on stolen moments, create a written snapshot, expose yourself, celebrate your otherness, words can be so powerful, and beads of sweat... or pleasure.

I'm looking forward to finishing this book. It's easy to prop open and scan the brief chapters and think about the exercise. I may use some for this blog in the next week or so.

My only criticism so far is her seemingly simplistic approach to dealing with children, not that I’ve read a specific chapter on it, yet. But with only one child to care for I hardly feel she qualifies to know just how busy life for women with several children really is. But I’m open to seeing what she says as the book progresses. Check out her website: http://www.barbarademarcobarrett.com

Anyway it's late now. Hubby and son are arguing, again, and I'd rather be sleeping, but I want to post this online now. I wonder if the tiredness shows in my writing.

“It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it.” - Aristotle

This quote, from Google.com/ig on Tuesday, jagged my attention, so I copied it to my prompt file. The marks of an educated mind are always remarked on by those who are educated. Is this something a dull and dim-witted person would do? Ponder what another might think on a given subject? Somehow I don't think so. This is what writers do every day, though. But does it mark one as having an educated mind, necessarily?

As I sit and write this my baby sleeps, my big kids make their ways home from various schools and my hubby sits at work experience learning about working with youth. My mind wraps around the thoughts of this great mind, Aristotle. I know little of him, except in reference from other sources. I've never felt an urge to study on him or learn more about him, until this moment. Was this quote a direct reflection of Aristotle's prowess in the intelligent department? Did he big-note himself for having entertained a thought and not acting on or accepting it? I've entertained many a thought in my time, not terribly educated thoughts; I must be honest enough to admit. Like the time I entertained the idea of murder.

This may shock my readers. Perhaps I should explain, but how much should a writer reveal?

At 17 I lived with my then boyfriend in a country area of New South Wales. It wasn't so much that he drank, it was just that he couldn't control who he became after he drank. His problems weren't made any easier by my own need to blur reality as often as possible with alcohol. The two of us also had an appetite for certain drugs. Life swung from tranquil to terrifying in one sip, toke or moment. I felt myself trapped in this situation with him. Certainly my narrow perspective came from living this extreme existence, but I believed it enough to think it true, at that time. In my desperate state of mind I contemplated murder.

Living with violence is not something I enjoy remembering, but it's a fact of my life. As a mature adult I can refer to that time and still learn. It's enough to say I know how it is to have two black eyes and make convincing sounds to cover the lie I lived. The time was crazy and hazy and parts are blocked out forever. To wake each morning and stare at the changing face of Mount Warning, not knowing how my face would appear in the mirror, or what story he had for the entire episode began to play with my mind. I felt the rope that anchored truth to my soul fraying. Insanity visited me briefly and I entertained her readily. That he did not remember doing these things, yet I could, made me doubt my own ability to know truth.

In this state of mind I toyed with the idea of murder. Surely, I could knock him off and began to work the ways in which I could do it. My mind employed logic and all the facts I knew about ways to finish him. In the end the only thing that stopped me was the fact that I would be caught. It was inescapable and brutal, but forced me to face the lesser "crime" of simply leaving him. Did I come to this conclusion because I was so educated? Would I have carried out my plan if I knew less? I'm not sure that it was only a choice of logic. Perhaps there is something about morals mixed up in there, too. Had I been less educated, I may have still come to the same decision, but only because I felt it somehow wrong to commit murder.

Perhaps I have not answered the questions I posed, but I have done my ten minutes of writing for the day.

Four goals:

My ultimate goal for Boot Camp is to have my non-fiction book ready to set up at Lulu.com. To do this I will need to spread the work over the next four weeks. I can make these attainable goals.

Goal/Week One:

Identify the articles I want to revise.

Make a file on my computer for them.

Put articles in the file.

Read through the articles.

List ideas for any additional new material.

Goal/Week Two:

Revise five articles, one per week day.

Do I need more articles? Brainstorm.

Outline two (or more) articles.

Goal/Week Three:

Write drafts for new article ideas.

Continue to revise articles, five per week.

Goal/Week Four:

Research marketing strategies.

Name non-fiction book.

Polish new articles.

Finish revising articles.

Okay, that seems like stuff I can do.

My evaluation of the Boot Camp experience so far:

The first two weeks of Boot Camp have pushed me to get motivated. The challenge and the chance to mingle with like-minded women has inspired me to get tapping at this keyboard. I already know I can write, but the assignments and request to post daily blog spots has carried me out of my usual safe place and helped me express my opinions again.

Permission to use as a client quote, to Kai.

Ok - you know those obstacles I mentioned? Why are they actually obstacles? So why are your obstacles actually obstacles, and what can you do to turnthem from obstacles into things you can do work around?

Right now I'm trying to write and hubby stands behind me talking with my eldest son. The discussion is on sandpaper, paint work on bikes and the need to get it finished. I'm doing my best to tune it out. My daughter is making a cuppa. I am tuned into those sounds. The ting, ting, ting of the spoon on the rim, the resettling of the kettle, the clump, slump of her feet dragging along in slippers as she finally rests the mug on my coaster. Then there's that bubbling hot first sip. Ah, nothing like it.

I can't find the piece I wrote on obstacles. What did I say about them? It's gone from me for now. I do recall something about lack of concentration. Mmm, it is an obstacle because I need to get into the flow of writing. It matters little if the writing is serious, fun or just tapping the keys and little else as far as inspiration goes. I first need to be able to concentrate on what I'm doing.

It must've been something I said, but they're all gone, left me to the words and the screen and the hot black coffee.

I do know how to work around the obstacle of concentration, but it requires I remind the kids, and hubby, exactly that I need to be left uninterrupted for spaces of time. This is something I feel guilty about. I already ask a lot of my family. They cook and clean and do a bunch of other things. In the evenings they like to be with me, just hang out, chat, make sounds, laugh and whatever families do when they're home. My daughter often has study; she's in her final year of school. My son has his bike to work on. But hubby has TV. I don't know if I want to go there.

Put it this way; I am a non-TV person. I find it insulting to my intelligence at worst and a time waster at best. Don't get me going. I'll bore you to tears, with a passion, on my hatred of TV. But for hubby it's another story. He finds it helps him wind down after a long day, or night, of work or homework, as the case might be lately.

I require no babbling voices, no bits and slashes of music and no flashing lights on the screen to reach my creative potential. I prefer music, be it classical, Joni Mitchell or Led Zeppelin. That or complete and utter silence. It's for this reason I cannot write with the radio on, either.

But back to Kai and the way to work around these obstacles - okay, there's ear plugs. I could invest in some. But I know the most effective way is to get them on my side on this. I'm just tired of the whole having to let them know my needs thing. I don't expect them to be psychic, but I get to the point where I wonder how many times I need to tell them just what it is I need, especially when it feels I specialise in meeting theirs. I know their favourite colours, foods, clothing and just about anything else you can name. But do they know mine? I think they've finally figured out my favourite colour is purple, but that's about as deep as it goes.

Anyway, the only other obstacle I recall is the one of hubby's course. We worked on some of his oral presentation tonight, but it's the last item he has to present. I won't need to help out with any more of this stuff from tomorrow Thursday night onward. That will be one more obstacle out of my way. So, there's not really anything left to say, for now. Besides, my time is up.

"Read over your compositions, and wherever you meet with a passage which you think is particularly fine, strike it out."- Samuel Johnson from Sunday 19th June 2005

This was yesterday's quote of the day on google.com/ig. I dutifully copied it down and felt I'd most likely use it for today's blog entry. The whole editing process has made me think long and hard about this quote.

I've sat there meticulously going over my writing, looking at it through a microscope, so to speak, trying to identify mistakes and places I've been superfluous, checking through every part of the editing process. It begins to make you hypercritical of all things. I can't even read a novel while I'm neck deep in this editing process. I cast my sharp eye over everything and think of more effective ways to use the language, to say what the writer is trying to say. It's like I become another person. Hubby doesn't even like living with me while I'm so far into the editing process. I need to keep going, though until the job is done. Then I can let the editor take a rest. He's good at his job and I call him out for it whenever it's time, but he tends to dominate all of life instead of keeping his opinion just to my writing.

For me, the only way I can really find a way to edit effectively is to give myself time. The longer I leave a piece of writing the cooler I will feel towards it when I let the editor loose. That's what makes this kind of writing, blogging, so dangerous, so self-exposing. The editor gets a brief glance at it, but I let it out there before I allow him much more. He does often demand I fix little mistakes he notices later, but in general he's learning to be more liberal with my letting writing go. And I suppose the lowering of editing standards in general has something to do with this principal.

I do feel editing has a vital role to play in any writing, though. I'm not one to believe for an instant that what I've written is so precious it couldn't be written far better than the way I did the first time the words slip through my fingertips. I believe in asking for advice, getting other opinions. There's nothing healthier for a writer than to get another view on your work. It doesn't mean you have to take all the advice given or receive all the opinions offered. Not everyone is correct, either. You learn how to balance what others say against what you set out to achieve in a piece of writing. It must be true to what you originally set out to show, explain or reveal.

As for Samuel Johnson's quote; I can't say that I 100% agree with him. If there is a part of your writing that feels great to you, but serves no other purpose than to simply make you feel good, then perhaps it would be wiser to strike it out, as he suggests. But there are times you feel good about something you've written because you feel the resonance of the truth in it. You got it right and you advanced your story, revealed character, or did something else to improve your story. Getting to know the difference between the two is what experience teaches you, I suppose.

I'm sitting here waiting for the last moments to tick by on the clock. There goes the last snick snuck of the second hand. I'm done for tonight.

Sitting down to make a daily entry in this blog I am gripped with a fear of not knowing what to write. There was no time to go online first and find the word of the day or the quote of the day. I pulled out the book I use for my group Daily Writing Practice, which is A Writer's Book of Days by Judy Reeves, and the prompt for today was; In the heat of the afternoon. Sitting here with jumper on, slippers and socks, it seems unlikely I'm going to write about some hot arvo, Aussie slang for afternoon. What can I write about then?

Perhaps how difficult it is to concentrate at times on writing. Right now my daughter is reading her Human Biology text book out loud to the baby. Her voice lacks that interesting up and down play and the baby is getting a little restless. My eyelids keep wanting to close. It's times like this where concentration dwindles into a puddle at my feet. No, that's me in the puddle. Perhaps I could write about when I get time to write.

since I had the baby, some five months ago now, I've written in my journal any chance I got. I took my journal with me to the hospital and scribbled whenever I got a moment. There weren't many at first, but I just grabbed them as they came along. Home again and it felt impossible. I don't think there was a moment when I could write at first. For one thing I was simply too tired. I'd get a chance to write and just nod off to sleep. I knew I could do little more than just write personal stuff. As the baby settled into something of a routine, that's a laughable statement, I was able to grab longer portions of time to write in. Whenever I was at the shops and the baby would fall asleep I'd sit in a cafe and just sip a long black and write in my journal.

Then there was the help hubby needed with this course. This could be another long story, but the short version is that he is dyslexic and needs extra help with everything he does, especially when it comes to reading and writing. I'd need to read out text book information, reread it and read it again. There were the assessments, too. He needed help with me telling him what they wanted him to do. You know how it is. Sometimes it's just easier to do things yourself than to explain exactly how to go about it. We'd also need to go over all the work afterwards to check it was all something hubby understood. We'd make certain changes and adapt the pieces according to his input, but essentially, I was the one writing up these essays, etc. At least I can say I have been writing, just not working on stuff I've really wanted to do. At least his marks have been very good. Each time he brings a marked essay I eagerly check for the mark received and comments by the teacher.

This has been an intense and difficult time of my life. My daughter, now 17, was also going through her mid-year exams a couple of weeks ago and also had the school ball, for which I made her a dress. My eldest son has been in rebellion against his dad for most of this year, too. The whole thing has been far more than exhausting. The whole thing has been beyond what I can humanly deal with. I've cried frequently in bed at night so no one else is aware. I've cried in parent rooms across the suburbs as I've tried to cope with all these demands on my life. All while capturing any spare moment to write my personal thoughts. I've read back some of the stuff I wrote and it's given me insight into my own personality and the pressures I've really been under.

I keep another daily blog on my daily life. I have a steady readership and love the community of diarists there. I try to write in my journal each day, too. But I've learnt to be flexible about these things. If I have to skip a day, I'm not under any stress. I just skip it and try to add the details I've left out in the next entry. I also scrawl out some bedtime thoughts. This is just a personal thing I like to do, but I've kept it up for the most part, especially in the last three months. At night I get time to write entries to this blog. Or perhaps I'll grab a moment in the arvo, like now. Anyway, my time is up. I'm out of here.

Okay, I do have a pet peeve when it comes to the writing world. Mine, similar to Kai's, has to do with American words becoming universally accepted as correct spelling. I've written pieces for online publication and have been ridiculed for my so called poor spelling. Those people are surely only showing their obvious ignorance and I can live with that. What really bothers me is the way the local newspaper has somehow taken on American spelling as normal, too. Each time I read the word jail in an Australian magazine, book or newspaper, I feel this deep irk inside me. I grew up learning the correct spelling to be gaol. Why did we go through the entire learning process of the teacher marking us for right or wrong if they were going to turn around in a few short years and accept the American spelling anyway?

I can't help feel this is simply laziness on the part of writers and editors. The computer programmes, another word my spell checker does not like, are set up as if America is the only place on earth where language originated. For my own personal writing on the computer I always use the Word Pad for word processing documents. It is simpler, sure, but I am not bothered by the silly squiggly red lines under my words. I'd rather keep the writing and the editing process apart. My brain handles it a lot better that way. Some time ago I took part in an online course that lasted an entire year. Of course I didn't finish the course. It was a long commitment and life tends to get in the way. But what I did write on that course was published in several places and I still refer back to some of those exercises. One in particular was useful to me because it helped me deal with my inner editor. The course was known as Inspirare and the exercise can be obtained from me if you send me an email. The copyright belongs to the owner of the website. She will not mind if I send you a copy, but I must also send her details along with it. I think you understand my need to protect her copyright.

What does this have to do with what I started to write about? The fact that I find it difficult to let the creative part of me create unhindered if the inner editor is there constantly looking over my shoulder with his snide remarks and sneering jests at everything the inner creative is trying to achieve. But once I let that editor have his way, his job is an important one. I dislike having to make allowances, after years of training through school, for there to be other spellings of the words I understand and know to be spelt another way. Hope that makes sense.

Another pet peeve is the level of poor editing in published works these days. I understand the two processes of writing and editing quite well, but it irks me as a reader to come across pieces that have made it through the entire process of readers, publishers, agents, editors and whoever else gets a look at it, to contain glaringly obvious mistakes. I've read novels by bestselling authors where there have been mistakes. I'm not talking one word, even though that is annoying. No, I'm talking entire sections. For example, I won't name the book, but I once read a lengthy Christian novel, which I'd describe as mediocre at best. The story was written in third person POV, but I come across a section, some five or so pages, and the POV has suddenly and unexplainably, changed to first person. Clearly the book was first written in first person and changed, but this section had somehow remained unchanged. I can't help feel the reader is not respected in these situations.

If I pay good money for a book I expect it to be well written and for mistakes to be spotted by those eagle-eyes editors. That's what I'm paying for. The writer has done their job and needs the help of someone else to look at it. This should never be a given. I read a novel by another bestselling author and the entire thing was in desperate need of a good edit. I felt insulted to try to read the sloppy work. I'd read other excellent novels by this author, and felt so ripped-off by the product I simply could not read it. If I'd had time I'd have complained. I've done it before.

One time I read a Mills & Boon romance, one of those Intrigue ones they're no longer continuing with these days. (Or are they? I haven't checked.) The story had so many problems I just don't know how it was published. So I sat down and wrote them a letter. Much to my surprise I received an apology, a box of five books, and a thank you letter for reading and responding. I'd actually forgotten about it once I got the rant off my chest.

That brings me to the bottom line. All of us writers, working and writing so hard. We're constantly told to pay attention to the spelling and grammar and then books like that are published. It wouldn't bother me so much if it didn't happen so often. But I see it all the time. I hardly pick up a book, paper or mag these days that does not have at least one error of some sort. I just don't think it's good enough. Anyway, I've raved on enough for now. I’m looking forward to reading your entries, my fellow Boot Camp co-writing companions.

Write - what do you like to write?

What I like to write is stuff that comes up from deep within me and I don't even seem to own it. I don't always understand the process or what it means, but I know there's this flow or zone I can get into when I'm writing and I just don't feel I'm on the planet anymore.

I get this way with fiction or non-fiction. I've been there with journal writing, too. I can sit and write and at some point look up and feel like I'm coming up for air or that I've been travelling through space and time. I put down my pen or sit back from the keyboard and exhale. Sometimes hours have gone and I haven't even been aware of them. Other times I can sit and notice the seconds ticking beside me on the old-style clock on the wall. I can't tell where those moments are when I reread the text, though, so it's just a preference because I enjoy being in the zone more than I do the endurance of pecking out each word or thought as it comes to me.

Fiction holds a special place for me, though. There's something about making up characters and just waiting for their life to flesh out. The more I think about them the more real they become. Their motives don't always come straight away, but soon I do know why they do the things they do. If I sit and ponder on them, scrawl away in my journal, or the special ones I make for each novel I write, they seem to clear in my mind like fine-tuning the radio until it receives a clearer picture.

One thing I like to do when planning a novel is to just sit, with my specific journal, and write and write about the characters. I've had the best ideas just doing this. I get right into their minds and hearts and find myself weeping at times when I learn new things about them. I love the way characters can still surprise you, even when you feel you know them so intimately, when you sit down to work on the novel. I love the planning stage because everything is like Play Doh. The ideas are just there to shape and ply the way I feel. I can change my mind and change their lives, but only when I have unearthed more specific information about them. At times I feel perhaps I am led, but I do not embrace the idea of channelling. I suppose this means I believe in character driven novels. I do enjoy those kinds of novels to read, but still knock back a plot-driven tale when the mood strikes me.

I enjoy writing personal stuff, too. Maybe that's already evident. I've had personal essays published. One in particular in Chocolate for a Woman's Courage. Check out Chocolate for Women for more info. Kay Allenbaugh is a great editor to work with. She really wants your essay to be the best it can be. I suppose for writers the most easily accessible resource we have is our own life experience. I regularly mine my life for subjects to write about. But, my time is up for tonight. I'm tired after a long and trying day with the bubby. He refused to sleep other than in the car, but is thankfully slumbering away in his cot now.

Wish - back to the hypothetical - what's the biggest thing you want as awriter? What would happen if you got a couple of steps further?

The biggest things I want as a writer is to write, publish and sell novels that sell well enough to support my family. To be able to know we can drive a decent car, go buy clothes when we need them, pay school fees without needing to drip feed the school, live in a comfortable fashion, which is the complete opposite of they way we live right now. I want to be able to walk into any book store and see my books on the shelves. I want to have book signings where people line up to buy my books and have me sign them. I want to give talks and workshops and be paid for my services. I want to be able to travel to promote my books, preferably overseas, as well as nationally. I want to be interviewed by Oprah, Letterman and Parkinson.

I'm not sure what further steps are there? For me it seems I want too much already. Am I expecting too much?

I could be. Not many Australian writers do live what I've wished for here. In short I want to be an internationally best-selling author. For me that's all I really want. Not so people will recognise me if I'm walking down the street, but so I know the readers have been touched. I'd like to think something I had to say made a difference to them. Perhaps I helped change their world view on some pertinent issue. Or I just made them see a problem in a new way. To be paid for what I love to do is all I'm asking for. I just want to make a living out of writing.

I can write articles, and I enjoy doing so, but in novels I really find a connection with the writing life. It's the place I feel most at ease. I can lose myself in the story, the character or the simple process of tapping out words on the page. I also enjoy letting the pen swirl and curl over the creamy unlined pages of my journal. I love to plan and plot the novels, to let them simmer on the back burner of my mind. The best ideas, endings and character motives come from this practice.

So, how many novels have I written? Last November, for the Nanowrimo, I wrote my sixth novel. I have ideas for several more. Not all these novels are at a stage they could be sent on to the publisher, though. That is what I need to work on.

But I am constantly bombarded with the need to earn money for the family. Hubby has always had low-paid work. It's the fact of our lives. That's probably enough information, though. I don't want to invite the intellectual snobbery I had to put up with on another blogging forum when I revealed details about my personal life. My man is the way he is and I love him. He's working right now towards improving that and he always has. Life doesn't ever happen the way you plan it. I'm glad I didn't end up with some guy who is nothing like my man. We talk and enjoy each other's company and have done for the last 18 and a half years.

Anyway, my time has gone. I need to finish this off and perhaps post it online some time tonight. I don't think I really addressed the second part of the above question today. Perhaps I will face up to it over the next entry.

This writer's blog is like my sand pit. I come here to play. I can fill buckets with sand and build castles just to knock them down again. I can dig holes and fall into them. I can push trucks and buckets through the sand and disperse it all around the place. I can fill my pockets with the sand and itch and scratch later when I feel it against my skin later when I am nowhere near the sand pit. That's exactly how I see this blog. A place to play.

In my blog I use the tools I have to play and build and destroy, because it's here for me to grow in, to dig around in. The golden sands are the words. In this sand pit I use the tools of voice and character, slant and opinion, fiction and fantasy, honesty and evasion, prompts and plans just as a child uses buckets and spades and various containers. I like to think of it this way. That way I won't fear to speak whatever comes to me. I can speak freely and let the sand trickle from one container to another, just aimlessly playing to see the way it falls. This is how a writer learns what works. It's in daily play that children develop and learn. It's no different for a writer. I've learnt so much just playing around with words. That's what makes certain prompts or restrictions a good challenge.

I attended a writing workshop once and we had to write a piece and not use the letter e. Do you know how difficult that was? But what fun reading and hearing the stuff we wrote. We laughed and shared our joy in playing with words, just like kids in the sand pit who can only use one bucket and a margarine container to build a castle. I've been to other workshops where we wrote limericks; poetry; alliteration; drew pictures and wrote about what thoughts they inspired; used opening paragraphs from novels to start our own stories; put on hats to get into characters who we wrote about; and many other fun activities. Not all the writing has been outstanding, but it doesn't matter. It's all play, it's all learning, it's all growing and knowing what makes for better dynamic readings.

Dawn asked about what voice we should use in our blogs, is it a conglomeration of all that I've written about before? I feel it is, but not all at once. To conglomerate is to gather together many different particles into one group, usually rock. It's clear we cannot gather all the voices and speak them at once. But we can play with the different voices here in our blogs. We could make one entry in third person point-of-view, just to see how it feels. We could speak the voice of one of our characters, let them have the page for the day. We could try different tones; authoritative, passive, assertive, friendly, humorous, playful, naive or express whatever mood we might feel coursing through our systems and thrumming in our veins as we sit to write.

With the feedback others are so willing to give, we can try out voices, get a response, play with tone and opinion, come at one topic in many different ways, just to see which way we felt click within our writing selves. I like the idea of writing about a situation, perhaps I'll think of a prompt of my own later, but to write about it in different genres. The same characters, situation, and place, but try it out in romance, then fantasy, then murder-mystery, and so on, until we find the one we slip into most easily. The one we enjoyed the most. Because we're just here playing around with words, putting them into different containers and changing their shape. As my son would say, "It's all good." That's all I have time for tonight.

So, purely hypothetically, what's your ideal?

My ideal is to bring my WIP to a publishable standard; to revise my non-fiction book and get it up on Lulu.com; to write for two hours each morning and another hour in the afternoon; to have a few non-fiction articles accepted for publication before Christmas; and to enter a handful of national short story competitions.

How far can you be towards it by bootcamp's end?

By the end of the 13 weeks (is it that long or is my memory serving me incorrectly?) I can have the non-fiction book revised and ready to work with on Lulu.com; have the query letters written for the articles I want to write; send the query letters onto the editors I have in mind; research and list the national short story comps I want to enter; and get two hours writing done each morning.

And why would it be purely hypothetical (list your obstacles) :)

This is all hypothetical because I have a husband whose working hours are all over the place. He doesn’t actually work, but this is work experience for the course he did all this semester. If he had something regular I know I could schedule my day around that. There’s also the baby. Right now he’s under the desk and I’m rocking him in a bouncee as I write this. He’s got that whinging thing going on. I can write with him doing that, but it’s not easy to concentrate. Hubby, sitting behind me at the other computer, gets frustrated and he’s only playing spider solitaire.

It’s hypothetical because time is a rare and precious resource for me right now. The only time I do have is when the baby is sleeping at night. But then I have the rest of them around. They all want to be in here watching TV, playing on the other computer, chatting and the like. I can write then, but it’s difficult to concentrate.

Am I noticing a pattern? The concentration part. I can write just about anywhere, but to be able to concentrate is another thing. I won’t be able to slip off into that zone. It’s a place I love to go when I’m writing. Incredible things happen there. The story tends to take place all on its own. I need do only the smallest thing, keep writing, to make it all happen. Anyway, bubby is really losing it now. Have to go.

I finally get to sit down and write. There's a sense of earning this moment tonight. The day was filled with activities I'd rather not list here. I've promised myself these ten minutes to just write all day. So, what do I write about? There is no prompt yet and perhaps there won't be for a while. The organiser of the Boot Camp isn't well. To me that just sounds so much like my life. Whenever I endeavour to make some change, begin a new project, or whatever it might be, there is always some kind of opposition. For Kai it's been this sickness. But for me, whenever I do get such opposition, I've learnt to see it as a sign that what I'm doing is important.

For a long time I used to simply lay down my urge or idea and get on with life or face the battle, whatever it might be. But as life went on and I began to push through moments when I could get an article down, or a short story, poem or novel written, and I saw the reward and response from others; that was when I saw the obstacles as opposition and not just inconveniences. I saw the problems as my adversaries and went into battle mode. This attitude changed everything. I could only be getting all this flack if what I was doing meant something. I'm meant to write and I must face the fact that something out there does not want me to achieve success.

I learnt to identify other signs, too. That sense of dread I felt at attending some meeting or event. I learnt that meant I was actually going to have a really good time. If I didn't get that clawing, stomach-churning sensation, the night usually turned out to be mediocre. Usually whatever emotion I'm going through it is because the opposite is about to present itself as the truth. I'm not sure I'm making sense, here. The time to write is dwindling away. Perhaps this is just thinking out loud and I need to find a tool to take me deeper with these thoughts.

For me, to write about the same things again and again is one way to find answers. I used to despair that my life was filled with so many dull moments, so many events that were the same every day. But I've learnt to use this as a tool to dig into my life and find fresh meaning in those moments. In my other online journal I have written endlessly about the morning skies, the depression I have faced and other events in my life. The act of writing about them takes me to a different level when I work and work at the same themes. It forces me to look with fresh eyes. It commands my attention to look into intricate details rather than to brush over, which I think most of us tend to do most of the time. I want my writing to be meaty, to thrust into the heart of the matter. I want to confront and debate over the right and wrong of issues, just to myself, to find out what I really think and why.

The time has dwindled. I'm left with mere moments before I need to go collect hubby from work. It is late, nearly quarter to ten at night. The rain has continued all day. I've written about that again and again, too, as the days face me with gun-metal grey clouds and the sound of water spattering my windows. I must face how to go on each day with joy and a determined step. I must get on with this writing life, but I wouldn't have it any other way. It's not only the rewards that drive me. The process itself is the reward. Better go get my man.

This second part is my response to Dawn's question asked at the end of today's earlier blog entry.

As far as feature articles go, I feel, the voice should strongly belong to the author, but the slant of the magazine style should be taken into account. The purpose of a feature article is most often to inform, but sometimes to entertain or amuse the reader. The leading sentence is usually the place the reader is confronted with what kind of article they're reading. The opening paragraph sets a tone, or voice if you prefer, that should signal to the reader how they should respond. This tone should continue throughout the entire article.

If the article begins with cold hard facts, the reader knows they need to pay attention, they're about to learn something from this knowledgeable voice speaking to them from the page. Their whole inner posture becomes focused on the pertinent details revealed in that article. If the opening line makes the reader laugh, they will relax and their inner posture becomes open and pliable to new ideas and thoughts presented in a humorous tone that makes a known situation fun or light-hearted. If the article begins with a personal anecdote or a line such as "I remember when..." the reader will either relate immediately, feeling a link with this author, or reject the voice as something or someone they cannot relate to or begin to understand. A mature and developed reader may continue if they still do not feel this strong link, but most people will assess if they want to continue reading on as little information as this first paragraph.

In all these examples I've mentioned the tone or slant or voice the author uses to catch the reader's attention. This is the part a writer needs to zero in on if they want to pass on information in a way the reader will enjoy. There's many other things to consider, but if you get this part right, editors will want your work, especially if you use a voice similar to what is normally expressed in that magazine, paper or ezine. This tends to lead to the further question, from what I'm seeing develop here, that is voice the same as attitude or opinion?

For this I am basically pondering and digging into my own thoughts. Some expert could come along and make my opinion look like junk. Perhaps it is junk. I feel that your opinion should be clear in anything you write. I see this as the key to getting the reader on your side. It matters little if they agree with you or not. They will continue to read because you are expressing something that matters to you. If they read and agree, you will have made the reader feel good about what they themselves believe. You have affirmed their opinion. Your voice has spoken clearly to them. If they read and disagree, you will have made the reader pull themselves up and think about why they disagree with you. You have challenged their opinion. Your voice has conflicted with theirs. In all you have done your job as a writer. That is to evoke a response, be it a warm and fuzzy one or a chilled and hostile one.

Anyway, that's enough from me. I've stirred up my opinionated self again. This is getting me thinking, which can only be a good thing.

In response to the voice issue raised by Dawn I sat down to write this entry. The time limit of ten minutes is meant to be happening here, but with bubby playing on the floor behind me I'm not sure that ten minutes will happen all in one go.

For me voice is what the reader tunes into the moment they begin to read. The voice might belong to the main character, or simply the narrator, whoever that might be in the story. For example; I enjoyed the voice of the main character in Joyce Carol Oates We Were the Mulvaneys. The voice of the male character was so strong I had to keep checking the front of the novel to see that I was really reading a female writer. Another example; Blackberry Wine by Joanne Harris is narrated by a bottle of blackberry wine residing in the basement of the main character, although this is not made clear in the US editions of this novel.

In each example I was aware of who was telling the tale and the voice was credible, even if the bottle of wine sounds ridiculous to write here and now. I was drawn into the tale by that bottle and believed everything it had to say. Voice must do exactly that; sound credible to the reader's ear. Even articles need this. As soon as the reader scans the words the subject must hook them, of course, but the voice of the writer must reach in a do more than simply hook them. The voice must relate, understand or amuse and immediately. While a voice is unique to every writer, I think it's something we need to have in firm control.

There is a man, sorry for not recalling who he is, who claims to be able to identify any writer by their works alone. He was used to prove the anonymous author of the controversial novel Colors (US spelling) and has proved certain historical works belonged to Shakespeare and other famous historical works. Although he has his critics, who doesn't, he is probably onto something. But, I feel, depending on the kind of writing you're tackling, a writer needs to employ different strategies for sounding different to their readers.

Nothing could be more boring to the reader than to have the voice sound exactly the same each time you open a book by a favourite author. Favourite authors have obviously done something right. They've found the credible voice of their character or narrator and have honed it to be a reliable witness to the details or story that follows. I would not continue to read MC Beaton mysteries or Anna Jacobs historicals or Derek Hanson Lunch With... series if they sounded the same every single time.

If one writer can write in several different genres, take Anna Jacobs for example who also writes teen, children and modern tales, as well as articles on writing, then voice is not something set in concrete. But it does need to be a tool we can use. Writers need to be aware of voice in whatever they're writing. The point of this exercise each day, I imagine, is to establish the voice of our own personalities. In doing this we are meant to learn our strengths and weaknesses. I know this is something regular journal and blog writing has done for me.

The practice of writing each day as a regular routine is a part of my life. Even when in hospital having my baby boy, I took my journal and wrote in it whenever I got the chance. I believe, and hope I'm correct, that I have developed a strong voice, in doing this regular writing practice. I'm such a strong advocate for this practice I even made an online group to encourage others to do it, too. Since I've been so busy lately I've left the running of Daily Writing Practice to one of the faithful members. I suppose I should get back into it, but I just don't have the time I once did.

The point of this entire entry is simply to say, I now need to work on presenting a different voice for each of my other works. I need to look at the novels I've written and identify if there is a strong voice in my narration. Are my characters speaking a clear voice the reader can identify with? I need to employ the right voice for my articles and other writing, too. Anyway, my little mister is complaining and I need to go tend his needs. I actually enjoyed that session and hope my readers find it enlightening, too.

It's been a typical busy Sunday, so I haven't been online yet and there is no prompt. The next best thing is to use the topic the pastor preached on. He preached on boredom. There's a Spanish proverb that says something like, "Everyone is tempted by the Devil, but the bored tempt the Devil." A man the pastor knew told him how when he went to his mother with the catch cry, "I'm bored," his mother would return with, "Because you're boring." I liked that mother. When my kids come to me with that line I tell them I'll find them something to do. There are always lots of things to be done around here. It's been a long time since I heard that line from any of my kids, anyway, so it must've worked.

When I was growing up it was considered the height of rudeness to approach my mother and complain about being bored. We'd be reminded of all the toys and books we had and be given a big lecture on being ungrateful. I can't even remember the last time I felt bored. Life is too busy for me to be bored. Even as a kid. I always had a book to read, preferably up a tree. With three brothers there was always someone to play with, or should I write someone to torment. Two of those brothers are younger than me. It was easy to pick on one of them and get them into trouble, a great game for relieving boredom. There was always something to build, destroy, draw, write about or simply daydream about. One of my favourite activities was stretching out on the green grass at home and gazing up at the clouds. Imagination ruled as the four of us tried to describe what creatures we saw in the shift and billow of those fluffy white water particles.

I have boredom to thank for my interest in writing. The constant drudge of every day duties at home just grated on my nerves. I felt useless, undervalued. There was a need for something more than just the day in and day out of my life. I saw an article in a magazine and felt prompted to sit down and write a response. My letter to the editor was published and I also won a prize. It was most likely the boost I needed. I recall now my beginning attempts to get published and can laugh at the mistakes I made, but they were valuable to my growth. I had a challenge before me and I am still achieving it today.

Okay, I've come a long way and there have been many other publications and many more rejections. But I've slipped easily into the writer's life. The next best thing I did was to join a writer's centre. Having like-minded individuals to share my crazy passion for words and the mad rush to finish a story or article on time was like adding fuel to my soul. I'd found my place. No longer did I feel at odds in a room full of people. I could go to the writer's centre and fit right in.

Anyway, I'm not sure how long I've written for today, but I need to get this online and try to read some of the other responses from the group. I haven't had much time for that. I spent last night setting up my blog to look the way I like it and other such housekeeping tasks.

Writing about writing is the kind of thing that continues to come back to me. Here I am, basically self-educated, if I can be so arrogant as to claim, and people want me to write about writing. What do I know? What can I share about it that they can't discover on their own? I'm a hick with poor spelling and grammar. What do I know? I was kicked out of school at 16, so I didn't finish my senior year. I've never been to uni, which is college for my US readers. But I have always loved books, reading and words.

To me there's nothing finer than a good play on words, in conversation, in jokes, in entertainment. I read for pleasure, but also read because I am compelled. There's something in me that must read. I read all kinds of things. The back of cereal boxes, the long list of credits at the movies. My family has long since learnt to sit with me while I read the names of all those nobodies we will never know. I read the list because it's there. Someone wrote it, so I read it. I read the Saturday morning paper, but I am selective about what I read. There's the comics and they get a good going over first. I flick through the TV guide, which has a cool column by Danny Katz and some other interesting articles. I'm thinking of asking a local author I know if she'd like me to do her interview for that mag, but I lack the confidence. I read the Weekend Extra, which contains news and articles on arts, literature, social commentary and some politics. There's also an okay travel section, which I generally just look at the pictures, but will read any articles by a friend of mine who writes for them occasionally. Sometimes I'll actually read the paper, but that hasn't happened in a while. Not since I had the baby, I don't think.

Okay, okay, I know I'm avoiding the issue. But it all comes back to the same thing; this continual urge, a push from wherever, to write about writing. I've had articles published on the topic, but that doesn't make me any kind of an expert. I just get this squishy, wriggly feeling when I'm asked to write about writing. The last thing I want to be is some know-it-all, who mouths off all this advice and yet can hardly string together a few sentences and make sense of it.

But I love to help people, genuinely give assistance to those who really want it. I love to lead others into the joys and the simplicity of writing. I love to dispel the myth that it's some kind of difficult task to pen your thoughts, to mine your experiences for stories to share. At the same time I live under this cloud of intimidation. I am not educated by the standards known and accepted by most of the writing world. I face the fact that I am still learning, but am willing to take someone else by the hand and teach them what I know. Should I be paid for that? Should I be paid to share experience that I've won by hard work and long hours? I say yes, but perhaps others would disagree. Anyway, I think my time it up. I've probably raved on long enough.

Did someone say housework? Don't they know that's practically a swear word around here? I don't do housework, I write. Actually, I pinched that from someone else. Would love to share the author of that brilliant saying, but it's one of those facts I chose to file in a different location in my brain, probably the equivalent to the messy kitchen drawer, the place you shove everything. I might take exception to the idea that my head is a messy kitchen. I'll need to think about it a bit more.

I tend to follow the advice left by Phyllis Diller when it comes to dusting; "Go ahead, draw in the dust around my house, just don't leave the date." (Or something very much like that, but I couldn't find the exact quote.) You could draw in the dust around my house. You could also run out of ink if you bothered making a list of all the things that should be done around here. Okay, I'll admit it - I don't do housework. I tend the chores around this house. If there's a desperate need, I might get around to it. If it's not totally necessary, I'll probably do it next week or maybe the week after. As I sit and write the lounge is covered in junk mail and Saturday West Australian newspapers that are over one month old. Did I mention somewhere that life has been really hectic the last five months? I'm not usually that bad. There's been the whole new baby and stuff to deal with. A stressful situation at any time, but add to it the way hubby needed me every night while he studied and prepared about twenty assessments for the course he's been doing. Then there are the moments I actually write.

I have to be thankful for my teenage kids. They are more than a blessing to me. For years now they've done the dishes every night. I hardly ever have to wash up. When it works out that I do, I really don't mind. I can't recall the last time I had to wash a dish. They keep the kitchen tidy, hang out laundry, bring it in, fold it and put it away. They feed their pets and do a million other things as I ask them to. They're great. Okay, they do need prompting now and then, but I don't like to complain as they are my biggest blessing. Without them it's likely nothing would ever get done at all. They even cook around two or three meals a week these days, though that's only been since the baby and the course. Before that it was a once a week thing each Friday night.

I've never been big on housework and no longer even feel any of that silly guilt over it the way I used to when I was younger. Hubby has come to terms with me, but only because he loves me and believes in what I'm trying to do - become a published novelist. Perhaps I horrify some of the other members joining me in the Writer's Day Boot Camp course. Perhaps I should be horrified, too. I'm not, though. For me, it's just the way things are around here.

Now I've had more time to think about it, I reckon I could probably get a bit more writing time each day, but only when I know what is happening in my day. If that doesn't make sense it's because nothing in my life does right now. Hubby is doing work experience. His hours are all over the place. Tonight it's the three until eleven shift. I have to consult the timetable every day just to check what's going on. Once he finally joins the workforce again perhaps life will be normal. I'm not holding my breath, though. I'll write where and when I can, even if it means I don't get the full hour each week day. Anyway, that's me for now.

The baby was refusing to follow the normal pattern we've set down for night time. It was time to insist. Usually such a simple child to deal with each night I wasn't sure what to do. I certainly didn't respond. Even though the cutesy smiles and talking were hard to resist. But resist I did. Right now I'm letting him have a little cry. There's nothing else to be done for him, so what else is left? I'm not letting him change the rules. I'm not forgetting who's in charge here. Already I cannot hear the cries. He's probably tuned into the sound of Picnic Time for Teddy Bears. Is that what the song is actually called?

In about ten minutes I'll need to collect my eldest child from work. Weird to have one just turned 17 and another not even five whole months old, yet. It wasn't how I planned things, but then what in life really goes according to plan? I continue to hear the words John Lennon immortalised when he sang, "Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans." Those words sound now a strong pattern into my soul. No, I didn't plan to have a child so long after the other two, but now I couldn't imagine life without my little gift. He has his moments, like any child, like now. But he is special in some way the other two simply aren't. Even they are aware of it. They take it in their stride when strangers stop and want to stoop to see the smile on the baby's face. Hardened faces soften when their eyes light on the blue eyes of my little son. I'm not sure yet for what purpose he is here and at this time, but I know he has one. We all do, yet mine may simply be to support and nuture, though there's nothing simple about those jobs. The less seen a calling the less society assigns it value. But without mothers we won't learn caring or sensititivity. Without mothers the world will lose it's purpose. Mothers, doing their jobs properly, can shape and mould the heart of a child. I would never believed myself to be saying such things, but my mother shaped me more than I ever knew. Not at least until I was far older, wiser, a mother myself.

There's another saying, "The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world." I don't know who said that, but will endeavour to search it out tonight online. Words so powerful they've fallen into the dust of cliche in our daily language. But many profound things are actually quite simple to speak, or see or hear. To appreciate them takes thought, pondering, imaginings and a large dollop of gratefulness.

I need to go now and collect my daughter. Perhaps there will be time for more musings, but I won't be disappointed if there's none. I've done what I sat here to achieve. Time to go.

Part b: Ouch. I'm avoiding honesty just lately. The reason being the way I've been super busy for most of this year. I had a baby around five months ago and have helped hubby through this semester of his course in youth work. It's been a real hard slog, not only for me.

My eldest daughter just turned 17 and my middle child is having his 15th birthday in a couple more weeks. Hubby is just about done with all this course work. Right now he's in the work experience part of the course. Kind of funny for him, as he's one of the older members of the class. He's actually had plenty of real life work experience, anyway.

I haven't been spending much time writing, as in productive writing that leads to a finished product. I've written heaps in my journal, jotted down ideas and played with thoughts. It's been too crazy for much else. My mind is brimming over with all the things I want to achieve.

But what time can I really give to writing consistently?

Mornings. I can devote an hour each morning, so long as no one else is around. If it's just bubby and me, I can spend a good solid hour on writing, perhaps more. I'll say an hour, though and keep myself out of real trouble.

I could possibly muse and toy on all this further. In a way, I should have thought more deeply on the earlier entry. No worries, though, there's not much else to say.

Or is there? Should I mention the time a man came to my dreams and stood beside my bed, silent and awesome. I didn't fear him. He eminated a sense of loss, of love, of fear, and a great burden. I didn't know what his story was. Not then. A few months later I attempted to write a novel in a week; an internet challenge I'd discovered. I didn't actually write the entire novel, but did get down some 40,000 words. It was on the last day of the challenge that I finally discovered what this man's story was. And what a story he has.

It took me the entire week to mine what he'd wanted to tell me. I spent that day pounding out the burden he carries. I cried as I wrote. I knew the reason for his burden. This was when the story suddenly was no longer hard to write. But is that story finished? No. It's one of the many sitting here waiting the finishing touches. There are five, or is it six, others in various stages. They're either first drafts, partial drafts, second or even third drafts.

I've learnt something with every novel I've written, though.

Enough for tonight. Hubby sits beside me playing Age of Empires. The baby is sleeping and the big kids are playing with their mobile phones.