Category Archives: Author’s Craft

Real Writers Live to be Inspired

Writers’ lives are full of pressure. We set goals for ourselves and inch our way toward deadlines. We study our craft, attend conferences, pitch ideas to agents, and network with all sorts of people on social media. We constantly long to write but never have as much time as we would like. Raising the stakes unnecessarily higher, we bravely tell non-writers that we’re writing a book . . . and later realize the magnitude of having released our secret. We’re now accountable when our friends innocently ask, “How’s the book coming?”

Remember this famous line: “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy”? Repeated over and over, for pages and pages, that single sentence fills the white spaces of a fictitious, yet infamous, character’s work in progress. After days of producing nothing of substance for the book he’s supposed to be writing, Jack appears demented—or worse, possessed by a sinister ghost.

The iconic imagery above is, of course, from The Shining—Steven King’s 1977 bestselling novel later transformed into blockbuster horror film. It’s a dream for many writers to be as prolific and successful as Mr. King. But try as I may, I relate more to poor, ol’ menacing Jack: I could easily isolate myself from society, shore up in a room for days, and drown myself in my writing. I’m equally obsessed as he . . . luckily not possessed, at least not usually. Still, I know Jack’s frustration all too well. Like him, I’m not making significant progress on the two writing projects I’m most passionate about.

One of my unfinished books is the biography of a female pastor, Janet Noble-Richardson. My inspiration to write about Janet stems from her influence on my spiritual life. I never met anyone who expressed such abundant Christ-like love in their own behavior. Janet taught love by modeling it, and I admired her faith-filled approach. I want people to see the way Janet lived her life and to understand what it looks like to be in close relationship with Christ. I hope her story will inspire people to develop their own connections to Christ and make Him the priority in their lives.

My job to tell Janet’s story is complicated for a variety of reasons. I need to verify facts, but I can’t ask Janet for clarification of personal details. She died in a car accident in 2006. So, I’m piecing the story together through written documents she left and through interviews with people who knew her.

Janet’s father told me stories of raising his family in Pakistan, where he and his wife served as missionaries. The family met people from many different nations. American diplomats and foreign ambassadors regularly attended church services at the Noble’s home in Islamabad.

Pastor Noble recounted one story with great fondness, and I could appreciate how significant the moment was for him and his family. On a vacation into northern India, they met a boy who said he was studying under the Dalai Lama. Ever since encountering the boy, the family has wondered whether he grew up to become the current Dalai Lama.

I started researching Janet’s story over two years ago and quickly realized that in representing facts accurately I would have to expose hard truths like this: It’s improbable that the boy the family met in India in 1961 could be the same man who is the current Dalai Lama. My investigation indicates that His Holiness, the 14^th Dalai Lama, had been living in Dharamsala at the time the Nobles were visiting the area. As I write this article in 2017, however, the 14^th Dalai Lama is still alive. Before the next can be chosen, His Holiness must die and reincarnate. Therefore, the 15th Dalai Lama has yet to be born, if at all. That means that the boy the Nobles met may have been a student of some sort, but he couldn’t have been training to be the Tibetan religious leader.

You can see why Janet’s biography is complicated. I hate thinking that I could ruin another really good family story. Regardless, I’m committed to doing my best, even if it takes me a decade to get the book done.

The other book I’m writing is for children. The story is flowery and fanciful—a work of fiction in which flora and fauna talk to one another. It has villains and heroes, conflict, resolution, symbolism, and a heart-warming ending. It is the kind of book that binds grandparents to their grandkids. The elders will want to read it aloud and the youth will cherish the book as their favorite.

I know the premise and I’m developing the cast of characters. One is named Grace—not for a didactic religious purpose, but because I promised my best friend during middle school that one day, I would name one of my children after her, Marjorie Grace.

You may all be thinking: finish one book before you start another. But writers don’t think like that. We can’t stop the ideas that come flooding our way. We do our best to harness them. Sometimes we’re desperate and reach for scraps of paper and napkins to scribble upon. Other times, we trap our story arcs in fancy journals until it’s time to unravel our thoughts and spin them into order with the help of software like Microsoft Word and Scrivener.

When friends like you ask how my books are coming, I know I overuse the words, “I wish I had more time to write,” and it feels like a horribly weak excuse. But I don’t worry about the time it takes. I know that I’m a work in progress too. While I’m forever thinking, composing, revising, and promoting, God is taking His time refining me—shaping my life through the people and experiences that are unique to me. I’m growing in knowledge and developing new skills. I’m learning to be a better person by juggling the demands of everyday life, experiencing burdens and joys, dealing with complex issues and personalities.

When oppressive thoughts lure me into thinking that it would be quicker and easier to check out from society—like Jack did—to mine my treasures, I know better. Fairy tale endings aren’t discovered in privacy and seclusion. Life among the living is rich with inspiration. I’m savoring my time in the real world with family and friends. I’m at peace knowing that I’ll finish what I need to when the time is perfectly right.

An Experiment

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Hot Blacktop started as an experiment. I wanted to find out if I could produce a well-devised chapter each month. On July 10th, 2015 I did just that. The journey has been fulfilling. I’ve written, with the help of my editor, Phil, a work that I’m proud of to call a success.

Now that I’ve finished the novella, what comes next? Dipping my toes into an ocean caught in an ever-expanding maelstrom of indie authors that have decided not to go the traditional route is a scary endeavor in my designs for success. Is it better to query several agents knowing the outcome could be a quick toss from the slush pile to the trash after reading the first sentence of the novella or listening to voice from a surprise phone call hearing someone tell me they’re interested in my work?

The first is common. The second is rare but more satisfying. Is it a safer to get my work up in e-book format and see what happens, knowing that it’s finally out there in the world of e-commerce so people can read it right away, no chance that it will be rejected and not seen at all? In the back of my mind, these questions have had me waffling all year. My brain feels like I’ve been balancing one foot on a thin board while my arms get heavier and heavier with the weight of each decision as I rebalance myself. It was a difficult decision.

Finally, I decided to take the leap. I’ve started the process to e-publish. A few of my writer friends have already jumped in, and it seemed painless if not time-consuming, and they appear to be happy with the outcome. So I’m going to reach forward with long strokes and swim in the sea of indie romance writers, and hope that I gain a following, hope that readers like what I have to offer, and hope that Hot Blacktop becomes a success.

Coming in January 2017 the full novella,
Hot Blacktop by Wendi Knape

Also coming in January, The Hot Blacktop series continues with Christof and Megan in:
Hot Turns

Editor Log – Finding the Zen of the Flow of Writing

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Every writer hears the voices. Whispers in their mind that offer encouragements and distractions. The voices are extensions of ourselves that drive us into the writing or place obstacles in our way.

Writing is like working out. It’s a muscle memory activity that requires constant attention for improving skills and raising stamina. Try sitting down and writing non-stop for five minutes. Set the timer.

For some, getting started feels like an eternity. For others, the end of the effort seems too far to reach. The voice in these cases throws out distractions such as “now is a good time to read some random articles or catch up on email.” Or you know you’re in trouble when the voice suggest taking care of the chores as more interesting than writing.

But for the determined, the voice is a coach–a drill sergeant who demands intent obedience to the writing, or the mentor who whispers, “just move the pen” or “type the first word…The.”

The Five minutes is not a finish line, but instead, a marker of progress. After several five minute sets, the writer extends the time to ten minutes, then twenty minutes, then forty minutes. Soon, time no longer holds apprehension. The voice is a quiet humm as you write, immerse in the zen of the flow of thoughts translated through the movement of fingers.

The writers on this blog exercise their writing muscles, and seek the zen of the flow. The process is never easy, at least not if one strives to be better with each word. I invite you to read this month’s engaging posts, and meditate on how the writers explore their voice, stretch their writing muscles, and find the space where the voice simply humms.

Hot Blacktop Ch. 7 – Test Ride – Part II

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Mature content

“Is he alright?” Sienna asked. The boy’s reaction made her heart hurt. She recognized the look in those eyes. She watched as Saint turned, kneeled and gently held the boy’s tiny biceps to stop him from shaking. Saint started to speak to the boy. She couldn’t hear what Saint said, but she saw the boy nod. His wide eyes snapped to hers. Like lightening they flashed back to Saint and the boy surprised them both.

“No!” he yelled.

Sienna jumped as the word exploded from the boy and she reached out as if to stop him, but he ripped his body away from Saint’s hands and he ran off.

She took a step forward as Saint’s gaze followed the boy running away. Saint stood up, turned to face her and she drew up short. Anger poured off him in waves. Was he mad at her?

“What’s wrong?” She took another step back.

He didn’t answer for long seconds and looked out into the dark where they could no longer see the small figure. “I don’t know,” he finally responded and turned back toward her. She sensed some deeper tension in Saint, the tautness of his body, the way his brow creased and the tightness at his mouth drew his jaw together. But in a blink, his stress faded away and he smiled.

Sienna’s breath eased out. He wasn’t mad at her. But what would it matter? She was here to call off the date. He would be mad soon enough.

Saint’s worry for the boy, Sienna could see, lay heavily on his shoulder’s still. “The boy. His name’s Danny.” He paused and took a deep breath. “I’ve watched him slink around, going on about two weeks now. He’s shown up almost every day. This was the first time he came into the garage.” Saint shook his head and looked toward the ground with a frown on his face, then turned his gaze on hers. “Most days he sits in the bleachers.” He pointed out toward the grandstand. Saint ran his fingers through his hair, gripped hard with agitation and expelled a heavy breath.

Her stomach swirled with dismay. Danny had looked beat down, scared out of his mind. His stark and lost, pale blue eyes, for one second, when they’d latched onto hers, the light from the garage had made them shine…in fear, of her? But why?

“Where’s he going? Should we go after him?”

“Home,” he growled the word. “I wish I could go after him. After he’d come around a couple days I was curious. I tracked him back home.” He blew out a breath and he looked right into her eyes. “It’s not a good place to be, Sienna.”

The ominous words spilled Sienna into a dark corner of her past, a time before she’d met Megs.

The dilapidated house she’d considered a home with faded, chipped paint, was a placeholder. A cold, empty box of a room with a mattress that had belonged to someone else, so worn from age she rolled into the middle when she slept. It had been more cage then home. Stale odors of booze and cigarettes were like a second skin; ones she could never peel away.

Sienna rubbed her arms cold from the memory.

The good days were the ones her Dad was passed out on the couch and her Mom had holed up in her room. Though the results of beforehand was her mother curled up on her bed, her body used up, bruised and scarred, the visible proof of abuse mapped on her thin skin.

The day Sienna met Megs was the first time Sienna dared to sneak out. It was the reason she’d raced out of Hampshire’s Stop and Shop. She’d been thinking about where to hide the food so her dad couldn’t find it. She couldn’t be caught or his wrath would have been evident in the days that followed.

“You should have never been born, Sienna!”, “You’re useless, girl.”, “Get me a damn beer, that’s the only thing you’re good for.”, “I could never love someone like you! You’re pathetic, whining and crying all the time.” That was only after he’d kick her for not getting his beer fast enough.

She could hear her mother’s words, “You’re the one who drove your father to drink. For being born. For coming between him and me this is the life we get. The life we deserve. If I’d just gotten rid of you like he told me to, he’d still want me.” She was the reason her father started using his fists on her mother, the reason her mother finally left Sienna with him. She was never good enough.

Sienna was cold to the bone, though she wore an extra layer under her coat. She stared in the direction Danny disappeared. It was so much worse for Sienna, when her mother took off. Even though she said so many hateful things, Sienna was her daughter. She loved her some, right? After all these years the woman still called her occasionally. Sienna’s memories snagged her again. The last time she saw the woman it was in the parking lot of her high school. She waited in her car, but when Sienna approached, her mother took off. “Come back, Mom,” she screamed as her mother’s car got farther and farther away.

Sienna swayed on her feet, the past blurring with the present, caught by the pain that it caused in her chest. She grabbed onto the only thing in front of her, but Saint must not have noticed her dismay. He kissed her. When she was able to come up for air, she looked up into his face and a cocky smirk made his mouth twitch. She blinked, still dazed and then remembered why she’d come.

Sienna pushed away, or she tried, but Saint’s grip tightened. Crap!

“Saint? She tried to push him away, but he held on tighter. “Saint!” She was able to get him to understand she needed space, but it wasn’t a whole hell of a lot that he gave her. “We can’t do this,” she said in aggravation and crossed her arms, which was difficult because Saint still had his arms cinched tightly around her.

He frowned, then his eyes narrowed. “Stubborn woman.” Saint took her hand, ignored her physical protests and dragged her toward the garage that still blared with light, toward the only bay left open. Okay, so he didn’t exactly drag her. She went willingly, almost, even knowing she shouldn’t.

When she dug her heals in the ground, he just picked her up and threw her over his shoulder. “Put me down, you…you Neanderthal.”

“No.” His voice gave no quarter.

Sienna’s mind was a jumbled mess when he became all alpha male. Maybe if she took the stupid ride, he would leave her alone. On one hand she loved it, the way he carried her, cared for her, like she was precious in some way. Was she? On the other hand, she wanted to kick his ass for being so bossy. Although, in every encounter they’d had so far, he never let her feel like she was less. She sighed, thinking still. He had sent her all those flowers. How he found out Gerber’s were her favorites…it must have been Megs. Megan would just have to stop spilling all Sienna’s secrets. She wanted to be left alone, to wallow in her self-pity. But the notes had been sweet. So, he wasn’t very good with words. She rolled her eyes, but of course Saint couldn’t see it. By the end of the week the notes had made her blush, telling her that he wanted to kiss every inch of her skin, taste her sweet creamy breasts. She was getting hot just thinking of it.

Sienna hit him on the butt. It was all his fault she wanted him so bad, her mind cluttered with sexy images, especially the ones where all of Saints clothes miraculously disappeared. “Mmm.”

“What was that?” he asked and squeezed her derriere.

“Nothing,” she squeaked.

Inside the garage, Saint slid her down, achingly slow. Shit! Her breasts tingled against his hard chest, his grip on her ass made her want to grind her body against his. Her wantonness doubled, so hard to ignore. She stifled a groan. Damn him if her desire to be under him on a soft bed didn’t rear its frustrated head…again. Memory of the orgasm he’d given her in her kitchen made a return performance.

She was so caught up, her breath turned harsh and her blood galloped, she hadn’t realized Saint had set her down and tried to hand her a helmet, and kissed her exposed neck. She melted a little more inside, the zing of temptation he sparked shot straight to all the hot desperate places she wanted him to touch. She was more disgusted with her bodies uncontrollable overtures for the man, she wanted to scream, for wholly different reasons.

“Saint, I’m not doing this.”

“Not taking no for an answer. You’ll love it.”

“No, I won’t!”

Saint smiled, the jerk, and got on a sleek black roadster of some sort and started it up. The rumble of sound made her jump. Sienna glared at him. Arms crossed, she looked out toward her car, tempted to leave. Before she could move he pulled her toward the bike and patted her left leg and handed her a pretty black helmet that was embellished with swirls, feathers and flowers. She stared at it. He tapped the helmet this time.

Reluctant but determined to end things when they got back, she put the helmet on and got on the bike. Sienna wobbled and gripped Saint’s shoulders when he righted the bike and kicked the stand back.

Her scream projected past the visor when he revved the throttle at the same time he yelled, “Hang on tight!” and took off straight out of the garage. Her arms locked around Saint’s waist. Varieties of creative curse words flew from her mouth as he shifted and the bike leapt forward again. Saint just laughed. With it she felt every release and contraction of his muscular stomach. It wasn’t fair.

Each curve he maneuvered became a dance with physics. The vibration of the rawhide seat was a constant pulse against her girly parts. The farther they rode, the more aroused she became.

It took too long for her to relax into his back and enjoy the ride. She wanted to forget she shouldn’t be here, forget Layton’s indiscretions which reminded her that she shouldn’t risk her heart again. But she eventually did. She couldn’t help but think a man like Saint could come to love her? Right? Maybe? No, her mind screamed. She quickly built a wall around the thought. Nobody could love her, not where it counted. Not enough to stick around. It was a proven fact that everyone left her. Well, except for Megs. Her friend would never abandon her.

When her mind went back to that notion, the image of Danny sprang to mind. He was a mirror of herself after her mother left. The loss of that small amount of protection was devastating. Something needed to be done to help the boy. Could she intervene?

She felt a tap on her leg and realized they were coming to a stop.

She got off the bike not paying attention and gasped when she looked up. It was spectacular. “What is this place?”

Saint didn’t say a word, grabbed her hand, and once again, pulled her where he wanted her to go. She really needed him to stop doing that.

“Saint!” She yanked her hand from his. “Would you please stop dragging me every which way.” She huffed and crossed her arms before she realized she’d even done it. She began to stomp her foot but stilled just in time. Sienna dropped her hands and smoothed out non-existent wrinkles on her jacket to cover up the petulance. All Saint did in response was kiss the tip of her nose again. She almost snarled at him but also nearly smiled as he wrapped his arm around her. “Frustrating man,” she mumbled.

“Sit with me.” He pointed to a bench that shown the view. It was too beautiful not to enjoy so she didn’t yell or put up a fight. The only problem, she didn’t wind up on the bench. Oh, no! Saint pulled her down onto his lap. She struggled, but her intentions to get up were weak. His heat felt too damn good in the chill that settled over their evening. Of course he had to engage her girly parts again. He pulled her close, his fingers, drawing lazy circles on her shoulder, which happened to be attached to the hand that smoothly moved under the collar of her jacket and shirt to find bare skin. She decided to focus on the view. Well, as much as she could.

They sat for a while the quiet lulling her to relax, but then Saint spoke. “My sister and I used to come here after my parents died. When things weren’t going right or we needed to clear our heads we’d come up here, stare out over the pine trees and just breathe to clear out all the other stuff in our heads.” She could feel him shrug his shoulders. “She’d gather pinecones and stack them up in a pyramid. I don’t know why she did it, but she would always be so focused I’d scare the crap out of her every time I told her it was time to leave.” He chuckled.

“Do you see your sister often?”

“No,” he said and rubbed his face with the hand that wasn’t occupied. “Becky was 18 when she overdosed.”

“I’m so sorry, Saint.” He squeezed her tight and then released her only a little, his hold still comfortably tight, his breath shaky as he let it out.

They sat with only the silence and stars for a long time. She thought of her mother. Sienna knew quite a bit about addiction. She shivered and put thoughts of her past out of her mind and concentrated on the sky.

The stars were a spectacle, millions of them trying to outshine the other. Sienna had always thought stars held a profound truth in their light. Some things outlasted even time. A human saw the light of a star that had perhaps died out eons ago, but its brilliance still lingered, remembered by the geeky astrologer. Remembered. Would someone remember her when her light stopped shining?

“What are you thinking about, sweetheart?”

Sienna sighed when he called her sweetheart. Layton never called her anything other than Sienna. “The stars,” she said and looked into his eyes. “They’re beautiful aren’t they?”

Without a word he leaned into her. “Saint?” she whispered. Slow as molasses he took her lips and she never once thought to back away. It was like she was a positive and he was a negative force that couldn’t help but come together, and God it was good. He sipped, teased, and licked at her mouth. Her need for him only escalated. She wanted to push him away but every time his mouth touched hers another link formed between them, sunk deeper into her skin, grabbed hold, burrowed into that first layer of her shields that he’d started to crack after their first encounter just a few weeks ago.

Sienna closed her eyes when the reach of his stare, while he kissed her, tried to cast more of his web. She didn’t want to deny her body anymore but she would deny her heart if she could help it. With each swipe of his tongue she opened a little more for him until her lips took his. Her tongue forged its way into the depths of his mouth matching desire for desire. When his hand that caressed her collarbone drew her around to face him fully, she turned willingly.

Hands came out of her shirt and wrapped around her back, drawing her closer. His kiss deepened. The wild scent of him intoxicated her. She moved one leg over his lap, kneeled and sat on his lap crowding him, chest to chest. The zipper of her jeans aligned with his arousal.

“Oh!” she moaned, startled by the instant zing that made her body weep for him. Could this get any better, she asked herself. Oh yes it could. His lips answered her internal plea. They brushed across her chin, skimmed the sensitive spot just behind her ear. He suckled and licked until she moaned aloud. She shivered as he continued down a path straight to the line between her breasts as her bra hugged the swollen mounds. She tried to direct him back to her mouth, but he would have none of that. He grabbed her hips to still her but it caused her sex to jolt.

“Ohh!” They both moaned.

Heat flared at the touch and she rocked with longer strokes. The fevered motion hit her clit, back and forth, back and forth. It would only be more perfect if he had been inside her. He moaned her name and his tongue delved between her aching breasts.

“Please!” She cried, not knowing why she was saying it. “Need more,” she begged. Anything to make the ache between her legs ease. Her will to stay away from him was forgotten. All she wanted was him.

“What do you need, sweetheart?”

“I…I don’t know.” She continued to rub her clit against him and he dove back in with his mouth, his tongue, his hands, everything. Her movements quickened, the beat of her heart seemed to find his as their chest came together and he rocked with her, and suddenly, she couldn’t hold back the scream that joined the climax. She exploded with sinful pleasure. “Oh, God!”

“That’s it Sienna, let go. I’ve got you.”

It was too much. A sob broke from deep inside Sienna with his words. His arms wrapped tighter around her. “Why are you doing this to me. This can’t happen. We can’t happen.” With more strength than she thought she had she pushed away from him and stood up and almost lost her balance. She wobbled but then gained her feet. “Take me back.”

He stared at her for a long moment, like he was seeing the inside of her soul. She wanted to run and hide. Then, with very precise and pointed movements, he ran a finger over his lips, catching the shiny wetness that she had left behind and sucked the finger inside his mouth, tasting her. She almost whimpered but held herself in check. Just barely. He stood and she took a sudden step back, would have fallen, but again, Saint caught her easily.

He didn’t do anything more, just held her with his eyes, and she froze like a frightened child. Her breathing wasn’t easy after the tumultuous ride she’d just taken.

“Take me back.” She bit her lip and pushed him away. He let her go, but it was a slow thing. She wrapped her arms around her middle like it would help hold herself together while her insides sizzled for his heat again. She wouldn’t tell him to take her home instead, make love to her until she only felt him, thought of him, and nothing else. “Please?” She wasn’t past begging either, even if her body agreed that she should go home with him. She knew it would be good, but she had more control than this. Right? Whatever happened between them, she would be left alone in the end. She had to let him go.

He nodded once and she sighed in relief. But that was short lived when he grabbed her and brought them together. He squeezed her close, aligned them from head to toe, their fit perfect. Then his head dipped down fast and his lips took hers hard, like he was staking a claim, marking her in some way. The surprise unbalanced her, especially when he let her go just as suddenly and handed her a helmet. She stared down at it. Once again he protected her, but she didn’t hit him this time. Sienna let him do what he wanted. He got her on the bike and they headed back to the city. She planned to go home, put on her most comfortable pajamas and wallow in a pint of Cherry Garcia, wanting Saint, something she knew would never be hers.

When they arrived, Saint pulled into the garage and she got off the bike, handed him the helmet and tried to smooth out her hair. He took the helmet and put it in a cabinet off to one side. Saint turned around and zeroed in on her with his gaze, but said nothing.

“Well, thanks for the ride.”

Still nothing. She lifted her hand and turned at the same time she waved, when he finally spoke.

“This is good between us Sienna. You know it,” His voice was calm and direct but it did the opposite to her. Her heart started to tremble inside. This time she stayed silent with her back to him frozen to the spot, afraid of what she’d see in his eyes if she turned around. He continued, “That helmet’s yours Sienna.” She shook her head, and swallowed hard. “I’m not giving up on what we’ve started.”

Writers’ Commitments for 2016 – What’s yours?

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As of this post, 2016 launches a time of reflection, renewal and growth. Last year I posted Writing Commitments for 2015: What’s yours?. These were not resolutions of possibilities or “maybes.” The post was to lay out the end in mind that I could work towards, and to invite other writers to do the same.

So how did I do?

I will read at least 10 books across genres that I like to write about: Education, Fantasy, Horror, Young Adult. I’ll write a review on Goodreads or Amazon or on this blog.
I did read over 10 books in these genres that I like. BUT, I did not post them all.
I will learn writing techniques from the writing styles of at least 3 authors from reading their work, which I’ll share during the Deadwood Writers’ study sessions.

There were some interesting tips and tools for author’s craft that I’ve explored.
1) Using narrative or conversational voice in nonfiction
Numerous articles on Edutopia modeled rich voices for making instructional topics inviting.

2) Ready Player One by Ernest Cline and Heroes Die by Matthew Stover illustrated to me the importance of a strong start. I enjoyed immensely both novels only because I pushed through the opening chapters. How many readers give up early because of the slow start of each of these stories? It’s a stark reminder for writing of all lengths.

3) Character development is critical. Several authors like Bernard Cornwell and Jim Butcher create amazing stories that I remember because of the characters. A good cast of characters can make for a compelling story.

3. I will create a detailed outline and chapters for an Education book on Differentiated Instruction for the 21st + Century — to be shared with 3 writer colleagues for feedback.

With hard work and some luck, I have secured a book contract! I’m in the process of writing So All Can Learn: A Practical Guide to Differentiation for Rowan & Littlefield. My deadline is later this year. I hope to see it in print either by the end of 2016 or the start of 2017. Stay tuned.

***

Here are my three commitments, plus those shared by other Deadwood Writers, for 2016.

Complete the book So All Can Learn: A Practical Guide to Differentiation in 2016, for publication by the end of this year or the beginning of 2017.
Write articles for three major education publications, which will be linked to here.
Read at least 10 books across genres that I like to write about: Education, Fantasy, Horror, Young Adult.

***

Wendi Knape

Define parameters and implement plan for self-publishing A New Life, my paranormal romance. My goal is the end of 2016.
Continue to develop and write the Hot Blacktop series.
Balance all the above with my new job and family.

***

Sue Remisiewicz

I will build my inventory of stories that are ready to submit to contests or for publication.
I will regularly bring installments of my “Road Rally” story to the group for feedback.
I will work to complete my Murder in Sight book.

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Cassandra

Participate in the group either online or in person when possible.
Write at least one article a month for bulletin and/or blog.
Submit at least two stories for publication.

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Barbara Pattee

I will read three books on the Civil War to facilitate the research for my historical novel.
I will write for a minimum of five hours per week.
I will present three more chapters of my historical fiction to Dead Wood Writers for comments.

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Karen Kittrell

Attend writers’ conference. Sign up to pitch manuscripts collecting dust on shelf.
Finish editing for publication at least one manuscript.
Write monthly article for the Deadwood Writers Voices blog.
Write three 500 word flash fiction, one 1500 word story and one 3000 word story.
Submit to at least six journals or contests.
Outline non-fiction.
Read six craft books and six works of distinction.
Continue monthly study of short stories.

***

Kelly Bixby

I will devote at least one day a week to no other writing than my work in progress.
At the end of every quarter, I will share my work product with another writer for feedback.
I will study at least one book in the same genre as mine.

***

Jeanette

I will finish my story, Tangled Web.
I will read a book on blog writing.
I will set aside more time for writing and stop procrastinating.

***

How did you do with your commitments?

For 2016 commitments, what are 1 to 3 concrete steps that you will take to improve yourself as a writer. Be specific and concrete–something you can track or measure.

Please post in the comments below either your responses or link to your responses.