A Day in the Life of D. K. Marley

Rabbit Holes

2010-08-04T11:24:00.001-04:00

The path of writing is pocked with rabbit holes. I can remember each and every time the moment before the first fall, the peeking into the darkness, my hands wrapped over the edge and the grass tickling my fingers. There is something there, I would say, I can feel the eyes upon me.

And then, without warning, the plunge; free-falling into those subconscious dreams as your fingers lay gently on the keys of your laptop. The miracle of the first line forming, spinning by you as you reach out and grab hold, while the sounds of ticking clocks and whistling teapots whirl in your ears.

Sometimes you thud to the ground, that horrible feeling of being lost in a thought and not knowing where you are, the dreaded jabberwocky writer's block. But you push forward, a small tasty morsel of inspiration settles in your jaw; you shrink down into your story, turn the key in the lock and open the door.

What delights fill your eyes as a garden of characters greet you. The persistent flowers wanting to know what kind of writer you are, the intuitive caterpillar not resting until you answer his questions of 'who,' 'what,' 'where,' 'how,' and 'why,' the childish twins helping you remember things of your youth, those tidbits of memory adding to your tale, adding together a little madness, a little hare-brained concoctions of your own imagination, and "ta-da," your story forms and weaves until the climax. All the while, the Cheshire cat in your heart smiles and moves you on.

The climax stares down at you with an axe in her hand. She is the moment of ultimate revision when your story either collapses or succeeds. All the cards are in your hand. You play the game, you shuffle the stack, rearranging and reinventing until you stand tall over the creation of this dream. All your fears, all your passion, and all your days of winding down wordy paths, now complete and ready for the world. The jabberwocky is slain, your story has grown-up and the white rabbit waits for you a little ways down the trail.

So, wake up to dream. Inspiration is right in front of your eyes. Come, follow me; I see another rabbit hole.

The Past in Present Sense

2010-08-04T11:23:00.001-04:00

Memories are like seashells on the beach. As you walk along ambling in a lazy gait, the past surges at your feet as the foamy waves break and leave beautiful treasures or broken fragments across the sands of your mind. Occasionally, you lean over and pick up a prospective find, blow off the sand, brush your fingers across the surface, anticipating that perfect piece you can tuck into your bright blue plastic pail; a treasure to adorn the shelf in your home next to the snapshot of a loved one. They are few and far between, scattered as they are among those fragile remnants, those shards of something that you cannot recognize. Those pieces you examine, turning them over in your hand, and wonder what that used to be; what image in my brain did this snap off from? You discard the unrecognizable remnant as nothing, insignificant and unworthy of gracing your shelf.

Yet, when you reach a point in your life when you feel memories are all that you own, when time has passed so quickly that you find yourself unprepared, we must reach down and cherish anything we find, even those painful broken pieces we think to chuck back into the waters. Even those make us who we are today. Even those make us the writer's we strive to be, bringing up memories in the words and stories we create in ways that may astound us.

The earliest memory I have, that has crept into my writing life, is one of those rare treasures. My parent's home in South Georgia, a small single wide trailer with an added back sunroom, was not much to speak of, but in that sunroom my dad had a turntable next to the tweedy brown couch and across from the fireplace. In the cabinet below the fireplace, his records stood waiting sentinel and for eager fingers to slide the black vinyls from their sleeves and set them on the player. Click, spin, and the sound of music filled the air. But what I can remember most about those old records is the choices I made in what I played. My dad had a whole bevy of flavors, yet two stood out to me: the "Meet the Beatles" album and the song "Ferry across the Mersey" by Gerry and the Pacemakers.

I adored Paul McCartney at seven years old. Whenever I was sad, whenever life around me filled with confusion, parents arguing, or inexplicable lonely moments, his Liverpool brogue soothed my soul. The sound of those British voices created in me a yearning for England, almost as if I heard the winds from the moors, the voices of all those old English writers calling me. In my childhood imaginings, the stories I created in my room, or trouncing through the pine trees, I was in England with a clear accent flavoring my southern drawl. From then, until now, the feeling has never died and when I began to write English historical fiction, I felt like I have come full circle to that little girl listening to those Brits in the dimly lit sunroom.

I have had the pleasure of visiting England three times in my adulthood and if anyone knows what it is like to know when you are home, then you will know what my heart felt when I stepped out of the train at Victoria Station onto the ground. A sense of belonging as if the ghosts of the past greeted me along the ramp. And then, standing in front of 'The Old Curiosity Shop,' thinking of Dickens, or walking along the banks of the Avon River in the shadow of Shakespeare, words inundated my mind. The little girl smiled. Yet, as always, with those beautiful sparkling shells, the cast-offs remain. I always had to cut off the record player and I always had to return to the States. Thus, I am a writer who dreams of the day when she can go home.

Beatrix Potter said that a writer must know where they belong, and she knew it when she moved into her home in the country. There she was inspired as never before. I have hope. I see a day when my writing develops into what it is meant to be in a place of inspiration, the day when that little girl can hear those voices all around her, when she can fill her bucket to the brim with shiny seashells singing, "So, ferry 'cross the Mersey, 'cause this land's the place I love, and here I'll stay, here I'll stay…here I'll stay."

My Own Inception

2010-08-04T11:21:00.001-04:00

Dreams are the funniest things. (Buy my book) Just when you think you have fallen asleep and you are walking down the path toward a beautiful beach, (buy my book) arm-in-arm with the love of your life, your hair whipping behind you in the breeze, you turn and see the strangest sight. (Buy my book)

There in the distance, morphing into view, a police car races down the beach followed by a hundred giraffes. The car slides to a stop (buy my book) and the cop rolls out onto the ground in front of you, demanding you take these giraffes back to the zoo. You stomp your foot because now the man on your arm has transformed into the lady you met in the grocery store yesterday and she is telling you that the guacamole is on sale. (Buy my book) You take off running, but your feet sink into the sand, up to your ankles as your dream switches into slow motion. You can see the trees up ahead. They are just there (buy my book) on the horizon; you can almost reach your hand out and feel the leaves with your fingertips. Suddenly, you rise up from the sand and you are soaring above the clouds. There is nothing (buy my book) but the rush of the wind, the cool dampness of the clouds against your cheek, and the feeling of freedom. You escaped!

But, wait. There is something approaching. Something hops from cumulus to cumulus. (Buy my book) What is this little creature with the big eyes licking you on the cheek? You giggle as you fall from the sky. Your stomach drops like coming over the hill of a roller-coaster. The ground is coming faster…faster….faster. There is nothing to do but flail your arms. (Buy my book) There is nothing to do but suck in your breath and wake up. You sit straight up to the big brown eyes of your puppy sitting next to you.

Thus, you have spent a day with me in my dreams and know a little about my life. I love the beach, I love my husband, I like watching nature shows on PBS and adore the show "Castle" and "Fringe." Guacamole is my favorite snack and I have the cutest puppy dog. The flying part? Well, of course, it is the feeling of writing, the excitement of creating a story and sending your words out into the world. And, oh yeah, there was something else, as well, wasn't there? Hmmm…a message of some kind? Maybe you remember?

Dying in a Downpour – A Short Short Story

2010-08-04T11:19:00.001-04:00

Rain is just rain, unless you are dying. The vibrations of the drops pelted against my skin as I stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of Dr. Easton's office. I stood still, letting each watery bead pop and drizzle, each bead magnifying in my mind like a tsunami surging and cresting around the one thought in my brain. I closed my eyes and tilted back my head; the river from the sky mingled with the ocean breaking through my lashes. The roar of the downpour pressed against me. The greyness shadowed over my shoulder.

In that moment, I saw each solitary droplet, a perfect circle reflecting the world around it, a fleeting flash captured in the essence of liquid. A time capsule. A mirror. An eye on the seconds swimming by, the doe-eyed young mother standing at the curb, her face full of the future as she stared down at the umbrella-shielded baby in the stroller; yet one glistening orb took note of the twitch in her fake smile as she glanced at the career-embodied woman darting from the yellow cab. The rain wondered what she regretted as it streaked onto the back of the fleeing woman. She held her briefcase from the past and above her head, cursing as the slicky sidewalk drenched her red-soled shoes and the air frizzed her greying hair. The rain broke harder, delighting in the mischievous grin she cast upon the young messenger boy as he sped by on his ten-speed. The rain pondered what she left behind as it beat against the muscles of the rushing guy. He popped a wheelie to the here and now, oblivious to the honking horns, as the oil-slick streets spattered against his calves and his faded blue shirt drank the water. The rain thickened hard against his perseverance, sloshing resistance as he broke through a puddle to send a spray into the opened window of a cab. The rain questioned to what he raced as it slithered down the old cabbie's raised fist. He rolled up the window against time as a puff of cigarette smoke mingled with the mist and he wiped the residual liquid from his ruddy brow. The rain clouds rumbled and contemplated what he feared as it beat against the window, unable to reach the woman seated in the back seat of the cab. She shivered from the chill, but smiled, knowing she had many more miles to go before she braved the storm, before she tasted the stream of time upon her lips. Yet, the rain examined her misplaced surety as her eyes touched upon the vision of me standing on the sidewalk. I was a passing vision, nothing more; and the rain, a mere inconvenience.

They all moved on with their lives; all things replaced with another sunny hue. Yet, my tears flowed into the vacuous depths of the street drains, carrying with them the leaves and trash of the world. The dirt of my heart. The mire of this disease. My rain eased to single pronounced droplets from the corner of the awning, plopping onto the glistening concrete and answering my life in a simple resolute response to not forget the details as I travel this path. I took a deep breath and looked to the heavens as the sun peeked through the silver-lined clouds. Reaching in my purse, I pulled out my sunglasses and covered my puffy eyes, lifted my chin and took one step . . . and another . . . and another, until I found the pace that matched the patter of waking to another soft dew-covered morning . . . and another . . . and another. . . and another . . .etcetera . . . etcetera . . . etcetera, with no ending, period

My Helper

2010-08-04T11:18:00.001-04:00

About six years ago, back when I was a green writer ready to conquer the world with my basic skills and undeveloped bravado, I attended the Writer's Retreat Workshop in Kentucky with the intent of pitching an agent with my sad manuscript. Needless to say, the ten days I spent there opened my eyes to what was lacking.

But what I remember most about the event is the gentleman who took me under his wing, not the self-absorbed pining as I realized what a mess my manuscript was. He was the instructor for the morning critique sessions, an older and wiser man whose interest in my work stemmed from nothing but care and genuineness. He never had anything to gain by his offering a mentoring word.

Six years have passed and he is still pushing me forward. From that day when we sat in the living room at the retreat and he pushed me to dig deeper, to find my voice, to drag my characters kicking and screaming into the story, and to reach that level he, somehow, saw in me; till now, when he sends back pages marked up with red ink, or I get his phone calls where he tells me in his firm voice that I need to dig deeper and that he believes in me.

And he does this while his own writing and his own health suffers. He is nearing eighty years old, has attended the Retreat since it began, and has yet to see his work published. He is a great writer with a story to tell, yet time keeps ticking away while he revises and revises to please this industry that seems not interested in this amazing writer. In my soon-to-be released novel, "Blood and Ink," I acknowledged him in my dedication. He thanked me in his kind way, saying it would probably be the only time he would see his name in print. This makes me sad. What can I do to pay forward his selflessness toward me? Cards? Flowers? Dedications? Convince an agent to take him on? Persuade a publisher to print his work? We all know that this industry doesn't work that way, unfortunately.

So, I decided to pass on what he taught me to other authors struggling to find their voice by teaching classes in the Continuing Education program at our local college. When I speak to them, I hear his voice in my head as his words flow off my tongue. This is his legacy and I tell the students about him. Whether he knows it or not, his mentoring has extended far beyond helping me. There are people now who have never seen him and are benefiting from his words of wisdom. I hope it changes them. I know what it did for me. His mentorship changed my writing forever. His friendship changed my life.

Challenging Shakespeare

2010-07-28T10:48:00.001-04:00

The very word "Shakespeare," much less the name, I have found brings many a wrinkled brow on most people. I think this is a shame. In truth, the thought of tackling the language makes some cringe, throw up their hands in the air in front of them, waving, "No, I can't read that stuff, it's too deep for me."

Aside from those thoughts, there is a new topic on the horizon that should peak a person's interest in Shakespeare. We seem to be bombarded in today's society with the idea of conspiracy theories, hidden clues in paintings, secret fellowships, hidden government agendas and so forth; well, just there on the horizon, peeking like the first morning rays of sunlight, is the theory that Shakespeare is not the true author of the plays and sonnets attributed to him. And just like the sun rising and blazing at midday, this truth will come to light, and very soon.

A new movie by Roland Emmerich called "Anonymous" is in development and will be released next year, 2011. The premise is simply this: Shakespeare was not the author of the plays, the honor going to Edward de Vere, the Earl of Oxford, much to the delight of Oxfordian advocates and the horror to Stratfordians.

I, myself, am unmoved to the idea that Oxford wrote the plays, having my own theories on the subject and swayed by the writings of some quite interesting books on the matter. While, in truth, the matter may never be fully resolved unless some astounding letter or writing is produced, the debate appears to be gaining momentum. Of which, I am glad, for even in high school I can remember having doubts of how this one man, this man whom little is known, who had very little education, this actor from Stratford-upon-Avon, could have penned such incredible and history-altering pieces.

My mind rests on Christopher Marlowe and the idea that he never died at twenty-nine years of age in Deptford, but that an elaborate masque was undertaken to provide him with escape from the scandals on his name and possible death at the hands of John Whitgift, or Richard Baines, or the Jesuit assassins seeking those who were involved with the spy ring created by Sir Frances Walsingham; a spy ring which Marlowe was most assuredly involved with as a foremost character, renowned for his disguises and bloody acts.

With these thoughts in mind, I give you the premise of my fiction novel, "Blood and Ink," set during the religious twisting of Queen Elizabeth the First, King Phillip of Spain, and the Pope. The story giving credit where I feel it is due, a reckoning for the fallen sparrow, a voice to the muse's darling, Christopher "Kit" Marlowe, the true Bard of England.

Words, Words, Words

2010-07-28T10:46:00.001-04:00

Announcement of my new Red Room club (www.redroom.com) named "Words, Words, Words" where we unravel, delve and submerse ourselves in all things Shakespeare. After all, Shakespeare was one of the first among us to reach those literary heights to which we all aspire. It is amazing to see how much influence he has even over some of the themes and subjects of our own writings in this modern age.

So, come join me as we tackle the Tudor world and the marvelous language of William Shakespeare (or Marlowe, Bacon, or De Vere), perhaps finding our own voice by listening to his.

When you join, comment on your favorite Shakespearean quote!

Mine is: "We are the stuff that dreams are made on and our little life is rounded with sleep." The Tempest

Rabbit Holes

2010-07-28T10:44:00.001-04:00

The path of writing is pocked with rabbit holes. I can remember each and every time the moment before the first fall, the peeking into the darkness, my hands wrapped over the edge and the grass tickling my fingers. There is something there, I would say, I can feel the eyes upon me.

So, wake up to dream. Inspiration is right in front of your eyes. Come, follow me; I see another rabbit hole.

Meet Me At Red Room

2010-07-21T16:10:00.001-04:00

I have a new blog sit, two actually, the first at my website www.dkmarley.com and at www.redroom.com/member/dkmarley, so come visit me at either one. Thanks!

Challenging Shakespeare

2010-07-21T16:09:00.001-04:00

A New Blog on my Website

2010-07-20T09:51:00.002-04:00

I am now blogging on my website if anyone would like to visit.

www.dkmarley.com

What Does Writing Mean To Me?

2010-07-20T09:01:00.002-04:00

A celebration of childhood. "Never forget your childhood innocence, it's the most important thing," my favorite quote from a movie about the author Frances Mayes. Childhood exudes imagination. Days filled with imaginary friends sharing a cup of tea in bright pink plastic tea cups, giggling into their palm as you whisper a secret in their ear, or standing beside you as you battle swashbuckling pirates, fire-breathing dragons and cackling witches.
Writing fiction is playing make-believe in its ultimate form. And for me, feels like one of those days snuggling in a big overstuffed chair in front of the fireplace at my granddaddy's house. The heat of the orange coals warming my cheeks as I imagined a small city collapsing and sizzling into ash.
I was a story-teller to silent ears, being an only child at the time, and my granddaddy's farm was my stage. Isolated and alone, yet nudged by the characters in my mind into far away worlds as the adults around me (mama, daddy, granddaddy and gramma) cooked, worked and repeated like an endless assembly line. More often than not, they scurried me through the back door. Go play, and I did. From the moment the screen door slammed against the door frame behind me, I felt the nudge. Seems every day a new character would grab me by the hand and pull me out into the pine trees, where their towering trunks transformed into castle turrets or morphed into a fairy-tale landscape. Oddly, I never thought to take up a pen during all those tender years; my words merely floating on the wind like some wandering troubadour.
Then one day, I discovered something. Sitting cross-legged behind a wall of books separating the hallway from the dining room, I wiggled out two large volumes: a book on English Literature and "The Complete Works of Shakespeare." I brushed my fingers over the top of the opening pages, across the faded handwritten letters of my gramma's name penned in the corner. And then it began, the slow page-turning, the pausing to read a few lines from Beowulf, the sonnets of Shakespeare, the poetry of Dryden and the prose of Milton. How can I describe the moment as the black words leapt off those yellowed pages? A little eleven-year-old girl lost and found at the same instance. When I left the house that day, my gramma came up behind me, tapped me on the shoulder and wrapped my hands around those books. She said nothing, just gave me a smile as if to say, "I know, I understand." And she did, she knew.
It wasn't until my junior year in high school that my English Lit teacher looked me in the eye and said, "You need to write." I didn't know how she knew either, but she did, just like gramma. Those first stories I set to paper held such excitement for me, like hearing the clicking of the rollercoaster as your little car heads up the first hill, your eyes on the clouds, your heart beating fast, your knuckles white as you clutch the pen, holding your breath as your story plunges, dips, swirls and loops.
When I think back to those early beginnings, I smile. They were inklings of my true self, my inner being; innocent and unskilled words reflecting a pure and unscathed youth. John Earle, a noted author during the Restoration, said of a child, "His soul is yet a white paper unscrambled with observations of the world, where-with at length becomes a blurred notebook." Apropos to how I feel about those innocent days of writing.
Yet, life happens, spilling out a blot of ink across those white pages, pulling a person further away from those childish imaginings. I opted for a nine-to-five job, marriage and children after high school, completely unaware of what writing truly meant to me, even giving it up entire for a while. My child sat brooding and scolded as if I had lashed her backside and locked her in a dark room. I felt her through the years, that empty space, that hollow heart, and I was never quite able to pinpoint the reason for my spiralling emptiness. You can only keep that true self pinned up for so long until she begins wailing and beating the walls, begging to be unlocked. So many times through the years I swallowed her down because of pressing responsibilities.
And then it came, the vomiting. The days that either 'make you or fordoes you quite.' During those unsettling days of trying to hone in on the reason for my heart feeling like an abandoned thing on the edge of an oubliette, I took up a pen.
The journey since those days, the past fifteen years, have been an awakening of that child. Now, writing and story-telling has brought me full circle to that little girl playing among the pine trees. There is not a day that goes by, when I snuggle down in my big comfy chair and open my laptop, that I do not greet her. She is happy now with the sun glinting across her eager blue eyes and knowing smile, as if she is saying,"If only you had of asked. If only you hadn't sent me away for a while. I would have told you what writing means to me."
Now I am older and my notebook is quite blurred. There are so many lines and quotes that I come across in my reading that I pause and smile, knowing exactly what that writer meant, for I can now see the children in other writers. Like, did Shakespeare wander aimlessly down the banks of the Avon dreaming of the battle of Agincourt? Did the Bronte sisters peruse the dark moors and then act out the scenes in a candlelit attic room? I like to think so, for in that feeling it brings a cosy feeling to writing, a kinship, a thread woven through the blanket of all prose and poetry.
Now I know what it was that my gramma and English teacher knew. They saw it, that dangling thread waiting to be clipped off or looped into the weave. I am so thankful they tucked me back into the stitching because now when I sit down to write I have a thick quilt to keep me warm, a patchwork of imaginary characters, far off worlds and rich deep words. What does writing mean to me? Happiness. Completeness. Warmth.
The pure imaginings of childhood refined in the fire of time, experience, hard work and many sleepless nights. Each story my own child, my baby, that I coax to walk and talk until I can send her out into the world. Every story resembling me, once scared and alone, growing, changing, painfully reaching the moment of ultimate revision, and emerging into something worthy.
Only then are you free to let someone else curl up next to you at the fire, snuggle close beneath your blanket, open the pages for a good satisfying read.

"Blood and Ink" now available for pre-order!

2010-05-17T15:00:00.003-04:00

Woo hoo, after eleven years of research, writing, editing, pain, suffering, and tears, my first novel is ready for pre-order at my website www.dkmarley.com and on Amazon!

I can't believe it, but now I can take a deep breath and pray someone will read my words and maybe, just maybe, a few nods of approval will come my way.

I now have a new blog as well, for anyone who is interested: www.redroom.com/member/dkmarley

Buy my book now!

2010-05-07T13:04:00.002-04:00

The publisher gave me a release date - August 15, 2010, but you can buy a pre-release copy, signed by me, and donate to a great cause at the same time!

The pre-release copies are at a discount rate on my website www.dkmarley.com and for each copy purchased .50 will be donated to the Susan G. Komen Foundation for Breast Cancer Research.

You can also view my AWESOME book trailer on YouTube at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZZPHw4ozj6w.

Thanks for everyone's support, we are looking to sell 2000 copies by the release date, which is also the shipping date for pre-release and signed copies.

Follow me on Facebook and Twitter!

2010-03-17T23:49:00.001-04:00

Just wanted to let everyone know that you can follow me on Facebook and Twitter!

Book coming out!

2010-03-17T23:31:00.002-04:00

Well, it's official. I have found a small publisher willing to publish my first novel, which used to be titled "A Reckoning for the Sparrow," but now, with encouragement from my editor, is being changed to "Blood and Ink."

Actually, I think I like the change, I mean, after all, getting published is the important part. The huge part!

So, I am now working with my publisher on the cover, and as soon as I get a pic, I'll post it. I've already started trying to generate some buzz locally and nationally (eventually internationally), so we will see how this all play out. Kind of scary waters to venture out into, to actually put your words out there for other people to see. It's what a writer dreams of and dreads at the same time, dreaming of the accolades, but dreading the criticism of something so personal.

O well, no turning back now, just hold my nose and jump...

Soliloquy Literary 2

2009-03-09T13:37:00.000-04:00

Forgot to post the website: www.soliloquyliterary.com !

Soliloquy Literary

2009-03-09T13:32:00.002-04:00

Just a note to let anyone interested know that I am also the editor-in-chief for the online literary magazine, Soliloquy Literary. We are now accepting submissions. Please review the online submission guidelines very carefully. There is also a yearly contest and online store. Spread the news! This magazine is dedicated to previously unpublished writers who are frustrated with not seeing their work in print, as well as established authors. Any questions, please email me at dkmarley@gmail.com or editor@soliloquyliterary.com

Review of "What Time Devours" by A. J. Hartley

2009-02-20T13:36:00.002-05:00

I have nothing but praise for this novel! First off, it was such a delight to meet A. J. Hartley in person at the South Carolina Writer's Conference, and even more to have him critique my manuscript on a one-on-one session. His advice and insight were right on!
"What Time Devours" is a captivating historical thriller, surpassing my other favorite "Angels and Demons" by Dan Brown. Mr. Hartley's mingling of Shakespearean phrases, wording and history work seamlessly into the story leaving the reader wanting to turn the page.
Of course, this topic, anything Shakespearean, is a treat to me, but I think that even a person afraid of delving into Shakespeare will find this wonderful.
There are twists and turns aplenty, secrets, lost treasures, love and murder, all befitting a Shakespearean plot.
I highly recommend taking this one to the beach!!

My First Article Published!

2009-02-17T12:35:00.003-05:00

Woo hoo! My first article made publication this past Sunday with the Marlowe-Shakespeare Connection. Thanks so much to my new friend, Carlo Dinota, and his enthusiastic response to the material. I've already had so much response and interest in my novel "A Reckoning for the Sparrow" from people anxious for its publication and this article gives a taste of why I began writing on this particular topic.
Anyone interested in reading the article can view it at www.marlowe-shakespeare.blogspot.com

Kudos to my Support Group

2009-02-12T09:16:00.002-05:00

Okay, I know it has been way too long for a posting, but the good news is that I've been steadily writing on my new novel. Woo hoo! This one is flowing even better than the last one, and I have a deadline on myself for the end of June.
I thought I'd take this opportunity to give a resounding shout of thanks to some well-deserving people. First and foremost, to Bill Luse, my mentor and friend, who has kept me encouraged during those moments when I felt like my work was a "POS," and who has kept me focused on the big picture, on the long-term future instead of the here-and-now. I am so thankful to have such a person in my life, and it is all due to my saving my pennies and attending the Writer's Retreat Workshop in Erlanger, Kentucky three years ago.
Which brings my thanks to the other people I met there. Lorin Oberweger, you have been the steady editing voice in my head; Elizabeth Lyon, your book "Manuscript Makeover" has become my main writing textbook next to my chair; Jason Sitzes, for your insightful lectures during that week; Roman White, for you sense of humor; and all the other writers that have kept in contact with me during these years.
Next, to my critique group - the Middle Georgia Writer's Association - who gave me a round of applause when I announced last month that I had finally found an agent! Your insightful voices in helping me revise my stories is so valuable and I'll never forget it!!
I think success depends partly on the support and optimism of the people that you surround yourself with. My suggestion for any aspiring writer is to search out those people who will give you that, a critique group that finds the value in helping a fellow writer, not one that is full of egos and bent on tearing down.
Lastly, I'd like to announce the publication of my first article for The Marlowe-Shakespeare Connection at their blog. You can link to it here.
Anyone interested in submitting to my online magazine, please visit the site at www.soliloquyliterary.com.

Great Day of Writing!

2009-01-21T18:23:00.002-05:00

I love those days when you get up early in the morning and you know it will be a great day for writing. You mind is full of fresh scenes and your fingers are eager to tap out each and every letter, and then it happens. Before you know it, ten pages have bloomed in front of your eyes as if dusted with Miracle Gro. Today was such a day. I am so excited about this new story! The outline came so easily and the research is turning out to be a lot of fun.
This year seems to be turning out to be a good one so far, even more so since I made a new friend. Thank you to Carlo DiNota from the Marlowe-Shakespeare Connection for adding to my successes for the new year. To be able to submit to your site is an honor!
Longer post later, I promise, but for now my mind is busy on my new novel, A Winter's Fire.

Querytracker Interview

2009-01-15T09:37:00.002-05:00

Just a short note to let everyone know that my interview is up for anyone who wants to read. It is at http://QueryTracker.net/deidrak.php
Thanks to Patrick at Query Tracker for giving us such an awesome site!

Update on Querytracker Interview

2009-01-13T16:52:00.002-05:00

Just wanted to let everyone know that I was asked for an interview by the creator of Querytracker.net. Querytracker was key to my success in finding an agent. After only 30 query letters, 3 requests for full submissions, 3 partials, and 3 months, I received an offer of representation.
I cannot say enough good things about Querytracker. It does everything that is promised on the website, keeping letters organized, tracking submissions, adding agents, searching for the specific ones who deal with your genre, etc., etc.
I highly recommend it to any writer who is at the point of trying to find an agent! I will let you know when my interview is up and posted.

Research, research and more research...

2009-01-13T16:41:00.002-05:00

One of the things that I love most about being a historical fiction writer is the research. Yes, I truly do! Although sometimes I must admit that I get a bit too preoccupied with it and find that I may have lost a few days burying my head in other people's books rather than working on my own.
My latest story involves the life of the real Lady Macbeth. Scottish history during the 11th century is quite obscure, which is sort of great because it leaves open so much opportunity for storytelling. Just from what we know of the lady from Shakespeare's play shows her to be quite ambitious, so we can imagine what kind of teenager and young woman she was before her adventures at Dunsinane. She was even married before and had a child at the age of fifteen...and, her first husband was burned to death with 50 of his men! Now, there's a story worth telling, methinks.
Okay, so I have a plan, an outline and a goal. 10,000 words by next Wednesday and the little voice in my head whispering, "Just keep writing, just keep writing, just keep writing..." After all, scribo ergo sum.

After Ten Long Years

2009-01-07T17:53:00.000-05:00

So amazing! After ten long years of rewriting, editing, crying, tearing my hair out at times, wondering if I'm crazy, mingled with the rare times of elation when a sentence sounded like music, a paragraph told a story by itself, and a chapter made my heart soar, I now have incredible news...

I have only been quering agents for three months now, sent out only 30 query letters with 3 requests for full manuscripts, several requests for partials, loads of rejections, but as always it only takes the one who believes in your work. On January 1st, 2009 I received an offer of representation from an agent in New York.

I can only say that the happy dance that I thought I would do (which, by the way, I did do) was tempered by a blanket of seriousness. This is for real, the real deal, the leap of faith and all of the above.

Time to take a deep breath because now that I know that I'm plunging thru the air after jumping from the high dive, at any moment I'm going to hit the vast waters of being a published author. I only hope that I have enough momentum to swim to the exclusive bubbling waters of those select authors lounging in the spa. Here's hoping...