A LESSON FROM DOREE, THE BLUE FISH

Just a little fishy advice.
Keep swimming. Just keep swimming...
You stop swimming, you die.

For the rest of this week, I'll be attending Life, The Universe, and Everything--The LTUE Writers Conference. I'm not going just because I'm on some panels. I'm not going just to let everyone know about my latest release--although of course I am.

I'm going because there are plenty of things I can learn from other local writers--and let me tell you, there are some big boys and girls attending. The state produces great writers as if the climate and soil is perfect for them.

And if I don't keep learning and keep believing that there is something to learn, I'm dead in the water, baby. Just like Susie Wong, my lovely calico fish that was just belly-up in the bowl one morning when I was nine. I was certain the one I decided was the boy fish, Kung Fu, had harassed her to death. Turns out I was right. They were fighting fish, apparently. Doh!

Mary Martinez guest posting!

For a surprise and a change of pace, I've invited author Mary Martinez to guest blog here on writersblock buster. A change is as good as a vacation, as an old workaholic boss used to say. So here she is, Mary, from Mary's Garden Blog. Her story is great...
Thank you, L. L., for inviting me to visit your blog. Since it’s Valentines month, I’m going to tell you a story about how I met my husband.

It was a long time ago in the ancient time of life after divorce. I was a single mom with three kids, and poor. One weekend the girls at the office wanted to go to Studebakers a local hang out in downtown Salt Lake City. So I scrambled to find enough for a babysitter, which left exactly 2 dollars for the cover. Yes, I drank water all night. And the guys that were asking me to dance were babies!

This was long before ‘cougars’ or I may have been tempted.

All of us were standing around and one of my friends said, ‘last one on the dance floor buys pizza.’ I was broke I couldn’t afford to lose. Literally. So I pointed to a guy, dark hair, mustache and glasses and asked “Does that guy, the one who looks like Sonny Bono, look older than me?” and when the unanimous vote was ‘yes’ I went and asked him to dance.

We got along great, I thought he was cute and I think he thought I was too, then I told him I was getting a divorce and it would be final in August (this was June or July). He seemed disappointed, and then informed me he didn’t date women who weren’t divorced yet. DANG.

So the summer passed and I went to Studebakers with my friend from work and as it so happened, it was August. Guess who was there? I had a bit of money in my pocket and ordered a beer and asked the waitress to take it to him. But while she was gone to get the order he came over and asked me to dance. Unfortunately, the beer never made it to him because we were on the dance floor. We danced all night and as he walked me to my car I told him about how I’d ordered a beer for him. He thought that was ‘sweet’.

The next night I had a date with an old high school crush that I’d met at the reunion a few weeks before. Well, let’s just say it didn’t turn out and when I got home the night was still young. I said to the babysitter “Can you stay longer? I want to go see if the cute guy is at Studebakers again.” AND HE WAS!

With another woman.

I danced a bit with some friends and then I thought I’d better go home so the babysitter could also. Besides I didn’t want to hang out and watch him with this other woman. As I left I caught the waitress and bought a beer—paid for it this time—and pointed out where he was sitting and said to tell him this is the beer that got lost last night. And then I walked out the door and went home.

The following day he called me and we talked for four hours. And we’ve been together ever since, 23 years.

There you have my story. Or did I make it up? What do you think?

You can find out about my new Beckett Series at www.marymartinez.com

You can find me on twitter @marylmartinez
Facebook http://www.facebook.com/pages/Mary-Martinez/169373246496620
Or visit Mary’s Garden Blog http://marysbooksblogger.blogspot.com/

And God said: DO NOT DISTURB!

We are so together in our solitude, aren't we?

We are all on that same road to publication, yet no two vehicles are alike. Some fly down the road in a convertible, smiling and waving and sure they're headed in the right direction, though it's hard to see with all that hair whipping in their faces.

Some roll their windows up tight and avoid eye contact with anyone they pass or anyone who passes them.

Some walk and talk and encourage others. Some take their time to help lost writers plot a course on their map, then strike out again, only to stop and help yet another writer because they cannot possibly ignore the need.

And sometimes, when the road is dark, we circle our wagons and have a giggle around a campfire, forgetting who is driving what, bonding as travelers, not writers.

But we are alone. In the throngs of authors and dreamers shuffling from one writer's workshop to the next, sitting on top of each other in seats meant for children, we are...alone. Wherever it is we end up--indie pubbing, traditional pubbing, or living in one of the six big castles in New York--we get there alone. Those who squee for us, throw terrific launch parties for us, or buy us cheesecake for every rejection, stand beside us, of course. But when we arrive or fail to arrive, we are alone.

In a library full of writers, we write alone. We edit alone. We meet our characters alone. We are rejected or loved depending on how hard we worked in solitude. It is the ultimate test.

I wonder, when God created, if he closed himself off, for a time, to come up with something brilliant. I wonder what the sign said--the one he hung on his door.

THE CURE FOR EMAIL ADDICTION

I stumbled upon this cure either by accident or cosmic design.

My laptop has become possessed, refusing to work with Windows, but happy to chum along with an operating program that turns its nose up at Word. Even the program's name, Ubuntu, hints at its ugly gaming underbelly. Obviously my beast only pretended to be literary-minded and has now shown its true colors, given me a rude gesture, and lies innocently on the desk while I try to sway witnesses.

Fed up and fighting heartburn, I handed the creature off to my last and final teenager. I hope the boy gives it hell and makes it pine for the days of peaceful word processing.

Which brings me to the cure...

Another set of boys (for those fellows at Used Computer Warehouse can only be called boys) came to my rescue with an older computer more than happy to offer me Word. But alas, the emails they do come slowly. The ancient four-year-old whom I refer to as The Dark Tower is teaching me a WWII version of patience, and I'm warming to it. I cannot surf or email, or even tweet fast enough to keep my little birdie in the air. As long as I'm in my office, my only option is to...write.

It's true.
Forced discipline.
It may be the only way for people like me to become the writer I thought I was.

Rock on, but gently.
Lesli

Pass the Gas?

For those of you who are old enough to have memorized M*A*S*H*, let me remind you of the episode when a young injured soldier continuously tries to take his own life. Exasperated, Col. Potter pretends to give up fighting with him and offers his aid instead, cranking up the tank and forcing the gas mask back in the man's face. The young man is so surprised he starts fighting back and after a few intense moments, Potter says something to the effect of, "There, you see? You don't really want to die after all. Now keep fighting to live."

I told you that to tell you this:

The other day I had the opportunity to play the role of Col. Potter. I have a friend--we'll call her Cathie--who was a bit fed up with some ticky-tacky technicalities and casually mentioned she might just throw in the towel. After gasping at the thought, I sent a reply pointing out just how easy it would be to leave the dream behind and move on to another. I told her she had my support either way.

Then I waited.

And while I waited, I thought, "There is no way I will ever give this up. I will never even type such a blasphemy."

But then what did I DO?

Next to nothing.

THAT is the problem. Doing nothing IS giving up!

Let me say that again.

Doing nothing IS giving up. Not writing anything today is giving up. Well, I won't do it, I tell you.

My anonymous friend, Cathie, said she won't be giving up either.

So, my goal--and I encourage those of you who occupy this same boat to join me---is for this coming week to do less giving up. Much less nothing and much more something, and in our world, that means writing.

So don't pass me the gas, thank you. I've had my wake up call and I'm fighting back.

Ainsley MacQueen, a writer today.