The Art of Forgetting: A Writer's Best Friend

 

Once upon a time (many years ago), I briefly found myself in a clapboard, rusty trailer, semi-ghost town in Nevada. The hotel I stayed in was a rundown has-been, where ceilings soared high, and the lumpy, almost colorless wallpaper was surely a century old. 

Outside, an ever-buffeting wind dragged dust across the frozen ground, rattled low-lying grasses, and set the wooden doors of abandoned shacks tapping. 

The only warmth to be found was in the hotel’s shabby bar room where, under an ancient tin ceiling, a talentless band whined out bad country music, and eccentric locals dished up tall tales, wry humor, and suspicion. It was a singular place, that community, eerie, even magical, and I’d give anything to be able to go back to it…

But where was it?

Believe me, I’ve searched for it over and over, traveling back and forth across Nevada, peeking into shabby trailer communities, fading towns, boom towns, ghost towns, and I’ve never found it. What was it called? Was it the way I remember it? Perhaps my recollection has so distorted the place, I would never recognize it today. Even more troubling, has memory played me a trick, created a place that never existed?

Is that a bad thing? Certainly not. My faulty memory has helped create the semi-ghost town of Blake’s Folly, Nevada. Blake’s Folly is a backwoods community of abandoned clapboard shacks, endless wind, and scraggly vegetation with strange local names like snatch-it shrub and sticky snakeweed. Back in the late 1800s, this former boomtown boasted three mining companies, a railway line to Reno, a lot of money, many saloons, and quite a few brothels. 

But the glory didn’t last. It was soon clear that the silver was running out, and by 1904, those sane enough to do so were pulling up stakes and leaving. But a few did stay on — the courageous, the cranky, the loners, the rebels, and the sort of people who love windswept places and closely-knit communities.

All I had to do was write about them.

What might a post-collapse world look like?

My upcoming book, Until We Met Again, is a time travel love story set against the backdrop of a post-collapse society. I was knee-deep in learning about climate change when I wrote it, hoping to understand this thing we call the Anthropocene and what parameters we could be working with as time rolls on.

It wasn’t the most uplifting subject of study, but it did help with figuring out how to build a ‘post-collapse’ world, a society of people getting by while waiting for their time travel mission to succeed. This nerdy topic is utterly fascinating to me, since it combines the disciplines of innovation and maintenance to secure human survival and well-being – contrast this with today where, often to our own detriment, innovation tends to overshadow maintenance and care.

Anyway, I wanted to share some facets of my fictional futuristic universe, in case you find this topic interesting too 💜

Small camps that grow enough food to sustain their population

According to the International Union for Conservation of Nature and Natural Resources, cities “cover only 2-3% of land, [but] account for 75% of natural resource consumption, up to 80% of energy consumption, 70% of greenhouse gas emissions, and 50% of waste production.” In light of this, a futuristic city didn’t feel quite right for a post-collapse society.

The place my protagonist calls home is instead a village-sized camp, one large enough to shelter the descendants of disaster survivors, and small enough to sustain itself on what it can gather and produce in the safer areas of surrounding terrain – most of which is underground, protected from any bad air and harsh weather that blows their way 🌬️

Unlike the beautiful long-ago deserts of the hinterlands, this one palliatively sustains what life remains on it, below it. Our small subterranean populations—dispersed, desperate and dwindling—barely eke out survival on this dying world. The wind comes from the west this evening, and the crackle of home is a soft, sparse patter. For now, the air is safe to breathe.

Contact parties: people sharing resources

Scattered across the country, these camps need a way to stay in touch and share resources. Though not completely technologically challenged, the survivor society considers it too expensive to stay constantly connected the way we are today.

The main technology for staying in touch over distance is good old-fashioned foot travel, bearing heartfelt messages along with extra supplies and manpower 👣

We first met at the bar on the other side of the refectory. You arrived with a contact party from one of the protein supply camps along the southwest coast. You brought a letter from my sister. You asked for me by name.

Oh yes, they travel back in time

My protagonist is gloomy about her life at camp. To the point where I’m almost sorry to subject you to her despondence, despite all the hope around her. But of course, I’m looking at this from a real-world point of view, where people like you and me can’t just go back in time to change stuff.

But she can. In this fictional world, where people weave furnishings from mushroom bark and human hair, volunteers willingly go back in time to make tiny changes, enacting big and hopefully positive impacts.

I’m not convinced we’d actually do something like this if we had the technology for it. We’d lose a lot by returning to the past too often. I imagine we’d get stuck, become culturally stunted, with future generations deprived of the chance to dream their own dreams.

Then again, maybe we’ve already lived out a disastrous future, and the present we’re experiencing now is a result of someone having gone back to save us from living the worst possible version of our lives.

Until We Met Again: A Time Travel Novelette by JL Peridot

A time traveller absconds to the past in search of her lost love.

One word: my name. A call from Origin through the neural lace grafted to my brain and nerves, connecting me to another place in another time. A reminder of what I’m here to do.

I clutch a bottle cap; its sharp metal edges ground me in the present. It’s funny, don’t you think, to consider this moment the present, as if the past and future I came from aren’t supposed to exist? If you were here, I’d ask. You’d smile and kiss my forehead and say you love my nonsense questions.

But you’re not here. They want me to forget you ever were.

💖 Preorders open until 27th October 💖

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JL Peridot writes love letters to the future on devices from the past. Visit jlperidot.com for the full catalogue of her work or subscribe to Dot Club for a collection of her tiny stories.

A Halloween Paranormal Romance complete series

 If you are looking for a Halloweeny read, check out this series:

The five young women of Hecate’s Fury are more than rock stars.

They are Shadow-walkers, chosen to help the supernatural world.

There’s just one problem. No one trained them.

(Each book is a standalone love story.)

                                            

                                              The Story behind Shadow-walkers

"Music is the strongest form of magic." Marilyn Manson

This series is inspired by my time as a rock and roll musician. Because of my love of everything otherworldly, I added a paranormal element to create a romance series featuring five young women in a controversial hard rock band who have supernatural powers. I always felt making music is a kind of magic, so this seemed like a natural addition.

Each story is a standalone love story. I'm really excited about this series because it's true to my heart. Plus, there is music to go along with this book series. I'm writing and recording songs again with my husband under the name Hecate’s Fury, the fictional band in my series.

Buy Links: https://www.kelleyheckart.com/shadow-walkers.html

The Magic That You Do - A Halloween Romance - Love Story #TinaDonahueBooks #HalloweenRomanceLoveStory #TinaDonahueMonthlyNewsletter #Giveaways #EyeCandy

 

AMAZON

The Magic That You Do

A Halloween Romance - Love Story

Passion. Friendship. Love. Some things a man simply can’t forget…

Finn has no idea what he’s doing at a haunted house on Halloween, but his tour guide Caty certainly rocks his world. Irresistibly drawn to her, he indulges in wicked delight and a return to their shared destiny.

TEASERS

What else will you learn about in my newsletter?

CLICK HERE TO READ

Thanks so much for reading today's post. Hope you enjoyed it!

Follow me on Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/tina-donahue

The month of Halloween demands mystery!

Jan Selbourne—a writer whose work I admire and love to read—and I (as Anne Krist) wrote Evil Lives in the Night as novellas so readers could enjoy the suspense of a good mystery in a tidy package. As always, she brings her knowledge and love of her homeland, Australia, in her tone and nuance. You feel as though you’re a part of the Oz experience. For my historical mystery, I channeled my childhood in Iowa and my grandfather’s Lithuanian heritage for a tale that could have happened on the street where he used to live. We sure hope you enjoy these two novellas!

Blurb:
Two great historical mystery novellas that will keep you guessing.

In Jan Selbourne’s The Next Stop is Dead, a woman boards a city train one night and finds herself alone in the car with four strangers, all men. When she discovers one of them is dead, she has to find a way to exit the train and get help. Will she escape, or will the next stop be her final one?

In Anne Krist’s Missing, sisters Audra and Daina communicate using “twin language.” But how much difference will that make when Daina disappears? Can Audra find her sister before her abductor ends Daina’s life? Even with the help of an over-protective detective, saving her missing twin might not happen in time.

 

 

Buy link:
Amazon US: https://www.amazon.com/Evil-Lives-Night-historical-suspense-ebook/dp/B0B5B2VPB6/

Amazon Aus: https://www.amazon.com.au/Evil-Lives-Night-historical-suspense-ebook/dp/B0B5B2VPB6/

 

Excerpt:
From The Next Stop Is Dead

Alison buttoned her coat against the cold wind blowing along the platform. Melbourne might be dull and staid, but we hosted the 1956 Olympic Games, we are known for our theatres and culture and Flinders Street Station was once the busiest in the world. Something the bragging Sydneysiders hadn’t achieved.

She looked at the ticket in her hand and up at the train timetable. The next train would go express from Richmond to Caulfield then stopping all stations to Dandenong. You can’t sit here all night.

Wheels on the tracks and the train pulled into the platform. Not one of the new blue trains but an old red rattler that should have been pensioned off years ago. Three young, laughing women wearing Footscray Tennis Club jackets got out of the end carriage and hurried down the exit ramp. Feeling miserable, Alison got in hoping she’d be on her own. Empty except for three men sitting together on the last row of seats. She walked to the other end of the carriage and sat down. The whistle blew and the train moved away from the platform and into the tunnel.

The train increased its pace through Jolimont Yard and without meaning to, Alison glanced at the three men at the other end of the carriage. They hadn’t moved, just sitting there reading newspapers without speaking. The man next to the window looked at her, lit a cigarette and after blowing a cloud of smoke into the air lifted his newspaper closer to his face. She turned to the window again as they passed the huge Melbourne Cricket Ground, holy ground for cricket fanatics and home of Australian Rules Football. Watching grass grow was more interesting than watching cricket.

The train was slowing down to stop at Richmond station. The door opened and she looked up as a man with a newspaper tucked under his arm got in. He walked past her and took a seat on the other side of the aisle. The train began to move out of the station.

Four men and one woman and they’d express through the next five stations before stopping at Caulfield. Feeling very uncomfortable she held her overnight bag closer and gazed through the window as the train gathered speed. Except for the clattering train wheels it was quiet, creepy quiet. They’d just passed South Yarra station and the reflection in the grimy window moved. That man was looking at her. Oh hell, he was standing up. Her chest thumped when he crossed the aisle and sat beside her.

A wide smile. “What are you like with crossword puzzles?”

Alison felt the blood drain from her face. Should she get up and go closer to the three men? It struck her then they hadn’t spoken or moved since she got on the train.

He lifted his newspaper. “The crossword is very hard today. Can you help me?”

Her throat went dry. “Pardon?”

“Two heads are better than one,” he said brightly and pointed to the top of the page. For a few seconds her eyes refused to absorb the words in thick capital letters. DO NOT LOOK UP. GET OUT AT THE NEXT STOP. THE MAN IN THE MIDDLE IS DEAD.

 

From Missing:

Something woke her. She moved and the magazine fell to the floor. Groggy, she scraped her hair back from her face and then rubbed her eyes. She didn’t need to look to see that Daina’s bed remained empty—she’d feel her sister if she were there.

The room was dark, the door closed. But she’d left the light on in the living room and the bedroom door open. Hadn’t she?

She’d forgotten to wind the alarm clock and it had stopped at two-oh-five. She clicked on the lamp on the table between their beds and got up to check her watch on the dresser. Three o’clock. Her heart raced and her mouth dried. Where in the world was her sister?

Suddenly, the front door closing sounded like a shot. She slid into her slippers and tightened the sash on her robe. “Daina!” She threw open the bedroom door and rushed to the apartment door.

Automatically grabbing her key from the dish by the door, she rushed out into the hallway and down the stairs. She hadn’t reached the bottom step when she saw a man halfway out the door. He turned to look at her and she gasped. His face was rough. Stubble made it dark. A jagged, angry scar ran from his left temple to his jaw line. There was no smile, no lightening of expression. With a scowl, he pulled a black, flat cap low and then left.

The door hardly made a sound but his presence in her building set off an explosion in Audra’s mind. Who was he? How had he gained entrance? What was he doing at three o’clock in the morning skulking around her building?

Fear gave way to panic. Her knees nearly gave out when the thought occurred that he might have been in their apartment, that it had been he who she heard closing their front door. Then the thought that screamed in her mind. Did he have anything to do with Daina’s disappearance?

On shaky lags, she climbed the stairs. She’d make a pot of coffee and then wait until daylight made it safe to walk to the bus stop to start the trek downtown to the police department. She’d think later about calling her parents but first thing this morning she’d have to file a missing person report for her sister. Her twin. The other half of her soul.

 

Reviews:

“I enjoyed these stories. They fit together despite being half a world apart. There's an innocence to the stories you don't find in the crime drama of today.” 4 Stars

“I really enjoyed these two novellas. I am a fan of mystery and historic novels, so these two were great to read. Keep up the good work ladies I am waiting for the next books or novellas to be published. They are great gifts for my sister. Highly recommended.” 5 Stars/4 Stars

 

A little about me:
A few years ago, Dee S. Knight began writing, making getting up in the morning fun. During the day, her characters killed people, fell in love, became drunk with power, or sober with responsibility. And they had sex, lots of sex.

 After a while, Dee split her personality into thirds. She writes as Anne Krist for sweeter romances, and Jenna Stewart for ménage and shifter stories. All three of her personas are found on the Nomad Authors website. And all three offer some of the best romance you can find! Also, once a month, look for Dee’s Charity Sunday blog posts, where your comment can support a selected charity.

Author links:

Website: https://nomadauthors.com

Blog: http://nomadauthors.com/blog

Twitter: http://twitter.com/DeeSKnight

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/DeeSKnight2018

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/265222.Dee_S_Knight

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B079BGZNDN

LinkedIn: http://linkedin.com/in/dee-s-knight-0500749

Sweet ‘n Sassy Divas: http://bit.ly/1ChWN3K

 

Out Now!!! Taken by the Sorcerer by @meganslayer #magic #romance #monster

 

Taken by the Sorcerer (Taken 11)

Author: Megan Slayer

Cover Art: Bryan Keller

BIN: 011659-03798

Genres: Action Adventure, Dark Fantasy, New Releases, Paranormal, Romance, Urban Fantasy

Themes: Magic, Sorcery, and Witchcraft, Shapeshifters

Series: Taken (#11)

Book Length: Novel

Page Count: 114

She’s never been taken seriously. He’s seen as a geek. Together, they could be unstoppable.

Skylar Graves is a synth -- she can shift into anything. She’s also known all around the world as a billionaire playgirl fool. Parties? She’s had them. Money? Bucketloads. Brains… Well, there’s the rub. No one’s ever believed she had the brains to make the money. No one’s ever believed in her at all.

Enter Brody and a reason to use those brains.

Brody isn’t the best sorcerer. He knows his spells and how to create them, but he’s still learning to control his magic. When he finds his perfect mate, he’ll be set. But is she out there? The trouble is, he’s been tasked with helping other paras find Eerie and he can’t do that alone.

The mome he meets Skylar, he knows he’s found his match, but the problem lies in convincing her she’s more than she ever believed.

Not impossible… right?

Buy now!! 

https://www.changelingpress.com/taken-by-the-sorcerer-taken-11-b-3798

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FPDJ2DW8

Expanding My Stories through Journaling

On and off I’ve done journaling for my mental health. It was recommended by a therapist years ago, I have found it really helpful, especially when I’m dealing with a big decision or a difficult situation.

Something about the action of physically writing my thoughts on real paper allows me to think more clearly (at least for me, it has to be real pen and paper for it to work, I don’t know why but I’m sure there’s a psychological reason). I find writing down my concerns, my questions, or my fears forces my brain to think different than just ruminating or even talking a decision through does. Something about sitting alone with a journal and my thoughts, no one else’s judgements or concerns to consider, allows my mind a freedom and exploration I can’t find another way.

Even though I’ve found journaling therapeutic and helpful for making decisions over the years, I never considered applying the same process to my writing. The idea just never crossed my mind. Not until I was watching a YouTube video by Sarra Canon where she mentioned she used journaling for her plotting process.

At first I was a little confused how journaling could help my writing. Sure, I could sit down and write about my story, and the magic of the pen and paper was bound to do something, but what exactly was I going to write about in this journal. How would it be different than just sitting down at my desk and putting my fingers on the keyboard. 

But when I got stuck on my current story, I was a little desperate to find a solution.

Just like almost every story I’ve started for the last several years, I began writing this new story propelled by the excitement of a great idea, until I hit an impenetrable brick wall at about twenty thousand words.

As a writer my process is a little different than most. I’ve heard it described as inspiration writer, or stitching writer. I don’t write starting at the beginning and work my way to the end. I write whatever scene I am currently excited about. That could be the first, last, or any in between. I start with what I know, no matter where it falls in the story, and let the characters take me from there. Usually while I’m writing what I already know, the next part of the story will just unfold for me. The characters will show me more of who they are. And the next steps in the journey become clear.

But lately that hasn’t been happening. Instead, once I get to the end of what I can see of the story, all that’s beyond it is murky darkness. So out of desperation to get some clarity on my next steps with this story, I decided to give journaling a try.

I sat down with my pen and paper and wrote down all the questions I had about my current work in process. I listed all the holes that I needed filled in, and hoped that by writing them down, my mind might see these road blocks a different way. That it might find a solution I hadn’t considered yet.

Amazingly it worked. When I wrote down the concerns I had, the problems I’d found, the inconsistencies I needed to fix, ideas started to come to me. Solutions I had never considered before but that added fantastic complexity to my plot, twists that deepened my character’s goals and motivations. Giving me another way to access my story and to explore this new world I was so enamored with.

Unfortunately, these new discoveries have led to a lot of rewriting. But it’s more than worth it for the new twists and turns the story has taken. And the character depth I’m adding. For the first time in years, I have written more than 50,000 words on my latest work in process, the furthest I’ve been able to write on one story in more than two years. And there’s a lot of territory to still explore in this world.

After giving journaling on my writing a try, I’m a convert. I will definitely be doing it again. I’ve even designated a new journal just for tinkering with ideas, to find new twists and turns to add even more excitement to my story, and delve deeper into my characters. If you’re struggling with your writing, or looking for a way to delve deeper into your characters and your plot, consider pulling out a journal and writing down your concerns and questions, and seeing where your mind travels. Who knows what you might discover in the pages of your journal? It just might be the addition you’ve always been looking for.