Saturday Time Watch: In Honor of Ghosts and Grim Reapers

In week #2, a slight modification (already!) to last week's idea of a regular Saturday Time Watch blog. You see, I realize I narrowed the scope too far. I suggested my "Time Watch" would be inspired by songs or poems related to time and love. Now granted, there is an endless supply of inspiration I haven't even begun to explore, but still, make the perameters too defined or the focus too sharp and I look longingly to the fuzzy edges.

So to broaden the focus, the concept of Time and Love on its own has lots of "fuzzy edges" to explore. It's the basis of an entire genre, of course; paranormal romance. You never know, maybe even a ghost or a grim reaper may be lurking. And what better time is there than this weekend, on the eve of Halloween, to pay attention when a ghost says, "I'm not ready to let go...I need more time to be with my love." And a grim reaper says..."It's time to go."

Here's my excerpt on Time and Love from my WIP River of Tears  (since renamed Ghost of a Promise and chapter one is here). Ben Riley, a ghost who has not adjusted to his new circumstance, has been given a gift of time from the grim reaper. He is about to enter his house where his wife waits. There are terms of course...

Through the open window of the cab, Ben could hear the sounds of the night. Crickets chirped in the warm, muggy air, and a cat in heat wailed its hoarse, god awful cry. His neighbors, sequestered inside air conditioned homes, probably didn’t even notice the cacophony of nature right outside their doors. But he did. To him, the noise was a reminder. Ignored or not, life went on.

Just not for him.

“If I do say so, Mr. Riley,” said Alex [the cab driver], “you’ve accepted your death quite well. Some take much longer.” The cat wailed again, eliciting a growl from the cabbie’s scruffy terrier. The dog stood on his hind legs, his front paws digging at the gap in the passenger window. Alex leaned over and patted the dog’s head. “Easy Chester, those days are gone.”

Ben released his breath on a hiss and glared up at the ceiling. He didn’t even want to look at Alex - - the cabbie who was so obviously not just a cabbie. It stood to reason that neither was the dog.

“What are you?”

“I thought you’d figured that out, Mr. Riley.” Alex answered him in the disappointed tone a teacher used when a prize student got an answer wrong.

“Humor me.”

After a brief pause, Alex said, “I think the best way to describe my function is that of a guide. I’ve been called different things.”

“Grim reaper?”

Alex sighed. “An unfortunate title.”

Ben absorbed the implied confirmation. He turned his head and looked at his house, dark and empty. Beth was in the hospital while he sat making pointless conversation in a cab outside their home. He needed to get back to her. “Why am I here? I’m dead. I get it. Your job is done.”
“No, Mr. Riley. Your journey has just begun.”

Alex’s calm voice, and the suggestion that he was about to abandon his life in order move on in some “journey,” enraged him. He lunged forward across the seat and grabbed Alex by the shirt collar. “If you’re here to point me in the direction of the white light, forget it. I’m not going anywhere and I’m not in the mood for a line of peace-and-love bullshit.”

Alex didn’t attempt to break free. Even with his shirt bunched up to his chin, he managed to look amused. “You seem to know how this works. Have you died before?”

Ben almost shot back, have you? But his gaze became locked in the black, fathomless depths of Alex’s eyes, and he saw an answer to his unspoken question.

He released his hold on Alex and sat back. Unease replaced his anger as he realized he might have to plead his case. Leaving Beth was out of the question, but how much choice did he have?
The air inside the cab was suddenly stifling and Ben felt a trickle of sweat between his shoulder blades. He forced his voice to sound reasonable - - friendly, even. “I have unfinished business, Alex. That counts as a reason to stay, doesn’t it?”

“It does, actually,” Alex agreed.

Relief washed over him in a wave. “Then take me back to the hospital.”

Alex shook his head. “You don’t want to do that yet.”

Ben slammed his hand against the door. “Like hell I don’t! Tell me how I can do it myself and I’m gone. Go torment some other fool. I’m sure there’s some idiot getting hit by a bus as we speak.”

“Mr. Riley, I understand your frustration - -"

Ben gave a snort of disbelief.

“And if you would listen, you might find I can help.”

“I doubt that.” There was only one thing he wanted. “Can you give me back my life?”

“I already have.”

Ben sucked in his breath. “What?”

Alex nodded toward the house. “Beth is inside. She’s waiting for you.”

“Did you torture prisoners of war in a former life, Alex?” He bit his words out through clenched teeth. “I know damn well where my wife is. She’s in a hospital room with her hands tied to the bed like a dog to a post!”

“This is not going well,” Alex said with a sigh. “No, Mr. Riley. Not here. Not now. You might remember this night. Your last birthday.”

His last birthday. Beth in a bunny suit.

Ben shook his head. He couldn’t keep up with the roller coaster of emotions. “Are you’re saying I’ve gone back in time?”

Alex shrugged. “Backwards, forwards, sideways - - it’s all relative. For the purpose of keeping things simple, yes, you’ve gone backwards.”

Ben grasped on to a new possibility. “That means I’m not dead.”

“Well, yes and no.”

His hopes were dashed before they’d even taken root. He glared at Alex. “Are you new at this job?”

Alex seemed to consider his question. “In a way. I’ve only been at it a few hundred years, give or take.”

“A few hundred years,” Ben repeated.

“Give or take.”

He was speechless and Alex jumped in to take advantage. “We’ve found a visit to happier times helps with the transition.”

“What do you mean by visit?”

“I mean your time here is temporary, but I hope you’ll consider it a gift.”

It sounded more like a cruel joke than a gift, but he wanted it. Badly.

He swallowed hard. “Will she be able to see me? Touch me?”

“Of course.”

A shudder of longing went through him. He looked at the house, wanting to go to her, but held back at the thought of what this meant. If he was real, could he get to Matt? His hand clenched into a fist. Vengeance had a much nicer ring to it than acceptance. “So you can take me somewhere else?”

Alex arched a bushy eyebrow and pinned him with those black eyes. “Is the satisfaction of confronting your former friend worth wasting your gift?”

“It wouldn’t be a waste if it would protect Beth.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Riley, but it won’t. While you are here, you cannot change anything in the future. It’s no use to even try.”

Nothing could be changed. His heart sank as the finality hit home. But he wasn’t ready to give up yet. “Just let me do one thing, Alex. Let me move some papers from Matt’s office and give them to my sister. She’ll know what to do.”

“Mr. Riley - -"

“If it makes you feel better, I promise I won’t lay a hand on him. You have my word.”

“That’s not it - -"

“I’m not asking for my life! Do what you want with me. Just let me fix this for Beth.”

“Mr. Riley!” Alex shouted. He looked startled at the sound of his own raised voice. “I’m not refusing. I’m just saying it can’t be done.”

“Why not?”

Alex sighed and took off his cap. Without it, the bald top of his head almost made him look like an ordinary old man. “Have you always had such little faith, Mr. Riley? We will resolve your issues. I promise. For now, I advise you to accept your gift. One more day, even one more hour with a loved one is a precious thing. Don’t you agree?”

Ben gave a jerky nod. Without sparing Alex a second glance, he reached for the door handle.
“Wait, Mr. Riley. Don’t you want to know how long you have?”

Ben glared at Alex. Half of him didn’t want to know, but the other half knew not knowing would be torture. “How long?”

“You can only stay in this form until midnight.”

The cliché sparked an incredulous bark of a laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Alex didn’t smile.

“Fine. Midnight it is. Then what happens?”

“You return to where you left.”

“Back to being a ghost you mean.”

“I’m afraid so.”

Ben looked at his watch. It was a little past nine. Almost three hours. As insane as this was, he wasn’t going to waste another minute.

He got out of the cab and looked at the cabbie. Alex touched his hand to his hat. “Good luck to you, Sir.”

Ben slammed the door.

*** ***

That's a bit of how I see time can be a big part of a love story. Time is all we want.

Happy Halloween everyone! :)

Out with the old, in with the new...almost

Need a little variety in your life? Ever think you must know more -- must broaden your horizons to be better able to write about diverse cultures, locations, and professions? All I can say is: careful what you wish for! It might not be quite what you think.

Here's a recap of my interesting year as a "non-traditional" (*whisper* that sort of means older) college student. As the new schedule comes out for another semester of college (for Spring 2011, my 4th semester, counting the summer), I can hardly believe I've spent this year immersed in classes on a little of everything.

Let's see. My journey started this year with deciding I would be a History major. This is my niche. Hmm. It wasn't quite as I thought. The focus seemed to be too political and not at all the romance of history I've enjoyed as a writer/reader. I did enjoy my literature class, but I also (surprisingly) enjoyed my general Biology and Historical Geology. I should be an English major logic tells me, but for some reason I'm resistant. On the fence, I switched from history to a dual Biology major and Humanities Major. Oh, and I added a Geology minor.

Summer came and went with the joy of a Humanities class and an Environmental Perspective and also, thrown in like getting stuck in a cold rain, something called Algebra. Then came fall. Somehow or another I decided to load up on the sciences, which all came with lab work. How hard could it be? Oh, boy. Chemistry Lab with safety goggles. Stylish! And more math. (Actually, the fear of being blinded, burned or inhaling toxic fumes is not so bad when compared to all kinds of craziness involving huge numbers "normal people" aren't meant to comprehend.) And I think, hmmm. This isn't quite what I thought I'd be doing.

But I also took a Theatre class. That couldn't be too difficult right? Funny thing is, that one hasn't turned out quite as I thought either. Some exposure I have enjoyed, but just as in literature, not all theatre is my "cup of tea." Japanese Noh Theatre, for example. Sorry, but no. And something called the Theatre of the Absurd. Again, sorry, but no. In fact, the point of Theatre of the Absurd is that there is no meaning. Search all you want, it isn't there. It is, by definition, a genre where the characters have lost their bearings in a ridiculous world and everything cycles back to how it began. Now, you can imagine how difficult this kind of a philosophy is for a romance writer to grasp. After all, finding meaning, as a romance writer self-trained to search out motivation for characters is what we do! So, if numbers give me a headache, it's nothing compared to trying to analyze a genre that says there is no point. I definitely had a hard time with that series of assignments! So much for drama being my "comfort zone."

What am I? A glutton for punishment perhaps? So, what does Spring semester have in store? Once again, it's time to pick an odd mix of want to and have to. The thing is, I'm not sure which is which. I'm running away from chemistry for now and lightening up on the course load a bit.

Spanish I, Ecology, Mineralogy & Petrology, and yeah, more Algebra.

Who knows what surprises this new schedule will bring! I'm hoping it will bring new favorites with enough challenges to keep me enthused and yet still be enough in my "comfort zone" to not scare me into believing I should be taking a nice easy classes -- like basket weaving or something. My luck, there would be some math involved there. Like a plot for a story, it doesn't stay simple!

I think, as I belatedly try to tie this blog to writing, that there is a hint of my search for balance in how I portray my characters. They all want to keep things simple but it never, ever works out that way. The plot gets chaotic because life is chaotic. It doesn't go as planned. And I think it's fascinating to work out those problems for a character -- with a character -- until they do get it right. I'm definitely a fan of "classic" structure -- an inciting incident, conflicts, climax, and most of all, resolution.

So that's my update on my continuing experiences with college. With all that said, I really, really need to just sit down with a romance novel and let someone else experience the variety for a while!

Saturday Time Watch: Fundamental Things

You must remember this

A kiss is just a kiss, a sigh is just a sigh.

The fundamental things apply

As time goes by.

Lyrics to "As Time Goes By" from Casablanca (1942) Complete Lyrics here.

Isn't that a lovely song? I love how this song reminds us of the "fundamental things."

As writers, we spend a lot of time in...well...ironically, in a constant attempt to manage time. We have a time related vocabulary of deadlines, appointments and strategies to plan our projects and keep us organized. But, as countless songs will attest, the concept of time inspires more than schedules. It's fleeting. It's nostalgic. It's a constant reminder of what has been and what can be...if we write it well.

And when two lovers woo

They still say, "I love you."

On that you can rely

No matter what the future brings

As time goes by.

Moonlight and love songs

Never out of date.

Hearts full of passion

Jealousy and hate.

Woman needs man

And man must have his mate

That no one can deny.

It's still the same old story

A fight for love and glory

A case of do or die.

The world will always welcome lovers

As time goes by.

This is my first "Saturday Time Watch: Fundamental Things." The idea; a favorite song lyric or a poem with "time" in the lyrics that simply speak to us of why we read and write romance -- it's fundamental and timeless. Can you think of a favorite?

Negotiating with the Inner Critic

The writer's relationship with the Inner Critic is a fascinating dynamic when you think about it. And, as writers, we think about it often! As a universal topic, writing blogs often talk about dealing with the IC and provide encouragement and positive reinforcement to combat the often negative energy of the IC. Or, in some cases, we find writing prompts accomplish this by freeing us for a short time to just enjoy the spirit of discovery in our writing.

This experience of seemingly being able to "turn off" the IC is nothing short of exhilarating. In that moment, it's as if we've found The Answer to conquering the IC. Surely, The Answer is to always find those ways to accomplish that task. We could run with that, right? :) Hold on to that thought! And I do mean hold ON TO that thought and emotion. I don't want to burst the bubble, but I think we all suspect there must be a little more to it to deal with the IC. In fact, I think the IC didn't really turn off at all, but it may have been something else we stumbled upon. I hope maybe you'll see what I mean.

First, let's continue doing what we often do -- personify the IC as if it is something real; a separate person. To take it a step further (indulge my paranormal world building), imagine there is not just one IC, but an entire culture -- we'll call it IC Land. Neighboring this IC Land is -- can you guess? -- Writer Country, where we live, of course. We have a beautiful, artistic, and highly chaotic society. Of course, we're always having trouble and skirmishes with the pesky neighboring IC. Sure, we win these encounters often because we're very inventive, but the IC always makes a comeback. They are a worthy opponent.

It's no wonder we have conflict. The IC people, on the whole, think they are above us; more civilized, more intellectual, more...well, everything. They know it all, or think they do. Knowing this, our tactics for dealing with the IC, our close but often oppressive neighbor, are varied; we often deny the IC's existence, we sporadically attempt to make friends with it, but, often this doesn't work. Then we lose our tempers and declare all out war.

The relationship between the IC and the writer is a long term conflict between two opposite cultures that has existed for a very long time. These two opponents, the Writers and the IC, don't really believe that they might possibly want the same things or have anything in common. And underlying all negotiations for peaceful co-existence, is a mistrust in the other's motivation. So, the conflict continues in a battle for territory.

What drives this conflict? First, it seems logical to consider both sides must want something. What does the Inner Critic want? Power? Respect? The tactic of denying the IC has any power seems to result in a sneak attack, so that is a possibility. Is it respect, they want? True, they do have a lot of knowledge, but they are "flawed," according to the Writers, by being resistant to change. They want order, tend to dismiss anything chaotic, plan far ahead and weigh concepts in terms of profit returned. But are they really vindictive in their dismissal of the Writer's ideas? It's hard to say. The Writers don't really know much about the IC motivations and falls back on a lot of assumptions.

And what does Writer Country want? That should be easier to figure out. To be left alone to create? Of course! When the IC seems to be out for blood and coldly dismisses their ideas, it would seem they're in the right to banish or kill off the IC. Good riddance! Then the Writer will be free to be spontaneous. But darn it anyway, eventually the Writers also want to be helped in areas that require order. Then what? If a Writer admits to wanting and needing help, then the Writer has to accept that not only does the enemy have something of value, but he/she has to listen. And how receptive can a Writer be to someone he/she doesn't know can be trusted? Does a Writer have to beg forgiveness? The IC might also be a little leery at that point to trust the Writer!

So, Writer Country and IC Land have a long history of misunderstandings and poorly timed exchanges. Writer Country continues trying to get the IC to give an opinion on how "good" something is and the IC always has to tell the Writer why it just won't work. The IC must do this, because every criteria they have for success in their society is in opposition to the Writer's criteria.

But What If...Writer Country and IC Land occasionally stumbled upon the right set of circumstances and the timing was right? What if, the Writer "forgot" to ask how good something was, and only asked for things the IC could legitimately provide? What if the Writer listened respectfully to IC's advice on how to put things in order, but didn't ask for opinions like "will this sell?" (The IC will tell you better stuff is out there.)

The result might be truce between Writer Country and IC Land -- a peace treaty of sorts. It's fragile and might not last long. Long enough, perhaps, for the Writer to experience the exhilarating spirit of discovery. The IC didn't really go away, of course. They simply gave what they could and didn't offer more. It wasn't asked!

To end the tale of the warring countries, you could say there is hope Writer Country and IC Land might one day learn to co-exist and even integrate as one country. You think? Well, that might be a tad optimistic. Conflicts are bound to occur. But actually, as long as the exchanges aren't hurtful, a little conflict really doesn't hurt, right?

I think it is possible to prolong the "peace" between the Writer and the IC. Just for fun, imagine what Writer Country and IC Land might say to each other if they actually negotiated or attended a "peace conference." If they were to set down some terms of what they both want and when from the other, what might that be?