Samhain Publishing

Happy Saint Patrick’s Day to you! Are you wearing green? Do you have a Shamrock somewhere near you? Have you kissed the Blarney Stone and can you sweet talk the love of your life into anything? Yeah, me neither with that last one. Not that I don’t try but you know how that goes.

But today has got me to thinking about superstitions. I am wearing green (had green added to one of my tattoos just so I would never forget, actually). Did you know that St. Patrick’s color was blue for a long time? It slowly changed as people associated the shamrock with his teachings on the Holy Trinity. The superstition of green being lucky actually changed the facts…how cool is that?

There are loads of superstitions out there. For instance, in my family there’s the superstition about throwing spilled salt over your left shoulder to avoid bad luck. Dig up any of the history of salt and its worth throughout the ages and you’ll probably have your answer as to where that came from. As a commodity, salt was worth more than gold at one point. Not to mention, it’s used in making holy water, so warding off the Devil (the King of bad luck) with it was a natural transition.

Don’t put new shoes on the table was one my mother was militant about. She swore it would bring about an argument or a death in the family. As a kid I remembered wondering if it were the type of shoes that brought on the death or whether the argument that occurred when I plopped them on the table counted. Mom never really explained why but if you think about it…shoes used to be made with little nails in the soles. Nails could scratch the table and therefore you could actually do damage to the furniture with new shoes that hadn’t been worn down a bit.

But the superstitions that inspired my latest WIP? I have no idea where that came from. There’s this poem I grew up with, everyone chanted it “One crow, sorrow. Two crows, joy. Three crows, letter. Four crows, boy. Five crows, silver. Six crows, gold. Seven is a secret that’s never been told.” My mother and I were constantly seeing single crows growing up. If you blew them a kiss, my mother said, they’d take the sorrow with them (If you see me puckered up while driving by myself you now know why). I started to wonder what a character would do if a single crow really DID bring sadness to her life, really was a messenger of some mystical sort. I’m having a lot of fun with this WIP.

Am I the only one who uses superstitions for a spring board? Anyone else out there have any interesting ones to share? For now, you’ll have to excuse me. I have some green beer to drink and a four leaf clover to weave into my braid.

Taryn Blackthorne is an accidental adventurer. You can visit her on the web at www.tarynblackthorne.com and Taryn’s Blog

Some people are just built for the Highway of life. They learn the proper way to do things, they study and they plan and then they do. They get it right the first time. These writers get millions of dollars for brilliant first releases, option their work for blockbuster movies and rub elbows with celebrities for Saturday tea. They’re on the fast track to success. Doesn’t mean they didn’t earn it, it just seems more…linear.

            But I’m not like that. I meander. I crash headfirst into things and then look up. I get lost and side tracked and dig up things that if I’d only listened to someone, I could have avoided that particular pitfall (I call them lessons, but that’s just me). It’s messy and it’s winding and I never take a straight route to my goal, but it works for me. I am a Backroads writer.

            So, if you’re like me, here’s some Backroads advice.

1.      Read, read, read. Yeah, yeah, I know. Everyone tells you to read the good books and the classics. But here’s a Backroads thing…read the ‘bad’ books too. Figure out what makes ‘bad’ books bad, what makes ‘good’ books good. Plot? Characters? Other people’s opinions? Somebody, at some point, liked this book enough to get it published. Try to see what an editor saw, the potential in the story, where it went right, and where it went wrong.

2.      Write, write, write. For Heaven’s sake, you can’t learn to drive if you never get behind the wheel. Number one’s not going to do you any good unless all you want to do is review books. If you want to write books, write every day. Have a word count, or a page count or time requirement. Start off small if you have to, but WRITE EVERY DAY. Believe me, I know this one’s hard. Here’s a Backroads tip: I had a good writer friend tell me she counts character scenes that might never end up in the book as her daily quota. Scene descriptors too. It helps her get her character right and alleviates her writer’s guilt. She even writes out of order! I tried it and you know what? It worked. Do what you have to but get BICHOK (butt in chair, hands on keyboard) done!

3.      Try it all. Admit it, you’ve read every writers advice book out there. Or worse, you bought the books and they sit on your shelf…waiting. I’m guilty of it. I tried plotting in minute detail, filling out worksheets of someone else’s design. I tried books for screenwriters, novelists, went to workshops other writers swore by, got subscriptions to magazines. Anything out there, I’ve probably tried some version of it. This isn’t a bad thing. It helps me work on my process (one thing that they don’t tell you is your process is constantly changing…maybe minor or major, but it’s always in flux). This leads me to point number four.

4.      Take only what you need. If you can’t fill in all the spaces on the character worksheet you got from that workshop you loved, don’t panic. You do enough of that as a writer as it is. Just do what you can do. Pick and choose, or cobble your own worksheet together. Hell, throw the worksheets out all together if that’s what it takes. I could have easily called this point ‘Whatever works for you’. Lilith Saintcrow prefaces her advice using ‘your mileage may vary’. Bottom line, the only one who can figure out what works for you as a writer is…you. You do that by trying it. You try it by writing, you figure out what to write by reading…see what I did there?

5.      Fall down seven times, get up eight. I still struggle with this last point. In this business, you will get rejected. Fact. Deal with it. Everyone gets knocked down. If you need to lick your wounds, do it. If you need to cry, go ahead. If Ben and Jerry’s should buy stock in you…okay we need to talk.  But get back on the road or you’re never gonna arrive. I had a university professor tell me I should give up writing and do something I’m good at (I’m quoting here). It broke my heart. I didn’t pick up a pen or open a file for three years. But ideas kept coming. Slowly, the urge to write got stronger and stronger. I started again. Kept going. A few more years and I was published with Samhain. And yes, I was briefly seized by the urge to send her one of my author copies (I resisted and gave one to someone I liked instead). Point is, it’s a setback I overcame. I’ve had other setbacks, but I keep trying. You only fail if you stop trying.

Don't panic if you're not an overnight success. If you can't zip on down the Writer's Highway. Maybe you just need to take one of MANY back roads. As long as you keep moving, I have faith you'll get there. Until next time…

Taryn Blackthorne is a paranormal author who currently lives and works in Nova Scotia, Canada. You can visit her at http://www.tarynblackthorne.com.

I live 20 minutes away from the ocean. It’s been cold and wet these past few weeks. Even more so the last few days, with rains so hard they sting your face and so thick you can scarcely draw a clean breath. Perfect weather for the storytellers and my family is full of them. Which got me to thinking about the term, storyteller.

In the old days, storytellers were given the best seats in the house, close to the fire. It was a place of honor, because storytellers were important. The gifts they had to give were necessary for the sanity of everyone there. Winters are long, storms frequent, death and bad luck never far from everyone’s mind if you live close to the Atlantic.

Storytellers brought a balm to ease the roughness of the chaffed soul. They told of Monsters that lived in darkness, that came out only at night and that hunted with tooth and claw, great beasts that could be slain with sword, arrow or a young hero’s wits. Tale weavers gave hope in small doses, that good always triumphs over evil, that it’s more important to be true to your love, honest to your family and friends, brave in the face of danger. That in the end, good things happen to good people. If you just believe they will, the hard times will go away. The narrator was, in a way, responsible for character education and values, for teaching us.

Fast forward to today, where our monsters have the power of corporations behind them. People have lost their homes because rich bankers wanted ANOTHER yacht with a squash court. Pedophiles slip past firewalls to talk to kids online. Gangs take over our neighborhoods in places, when you grew up, you always thought would be safe. Good people fall on hard times and sometimes they don’t win. Where are our storytellers? Sure, there are movies, television, books even, but nothing takes the place of a good storyteller. I think we writers need that contact with our audience. We can’t see your breath quicken, your eyes widen, and we can’t hear you gasp with fright or laugh out loud at our heroes and heroines. Ultimately, we need that human contact as writers.

So to everyone who’s ever bought a Taryn Blackthorne book, thank you. I hope you enjoyed my story. I hope my heroines make you smile a little, that my heroes make you sweat (in a good way), that my villains get a satisfying comeuppance and mostly, that reading my work takes your worries away for just a little while. It is my greatest honor to share your fire and weave my tales. Thank you for letting me be a storyteller.

My hooman is crazy. I knew that already, but I just wanted to point it out for the rest of the world. What I had not realized was how sneaky she could be. I guess I should begin at the beginning for those of you not as wise as I.

I was perfectly happy, back in our basement apartment, when my stupid hooman decided that I needed to travel again. And what for, I ask you? We have food here, we’re warm here, there is a dog in the building, and short hoomans who like to poke and yell loud, true. But I greet my hooman at the stairs every day. Do you know how hard it is to weave around her feet when she’s walking down stairs? And if she has something in her hands, she usually drops them and blames ME while I have to dodge them. Hrumph. I even keep her warm at night (though she sends me flying every time she rolls over. I must remember to look up ‘kidney’ and ‘bladder’ in the Feline Guide to Hooman Ownership…) and she complains about ME!

I even had an arrangement with the dog for tree visitation rights. That’s right my fellow felines, weep with envy. My hooman got a TREE and put it INSIDE the house! I had to time share with the dog. He got it during the day and I got it at night. It was wonderful to weave my stealthy way among the paper coated booby traps, weave around the shiny bugs and make sure the glass alarms didn’t give me away while I climbed up it. I should have suspected something when she took out the travel box she puts her other skins in, but she left it out for a week and didn’t tell me anything! And today, she put it upstairs and I just though she was getting rid of it. But she came downstairs and cuddled and snuggled and then dropped me in my travel bag! My stupid hooman says we have to go to Grandma’s for something she calls Christmas and I don’t want to! Well…

I do have more room to run there. And there are many more windows, much lower and easier to get to (not that I have trouble, mind, just that they are much less challenging). And Grandma always sneaks me treats when my hooman isn’t looking. There’s even a fireplace. Okay, hooman. I will go with you in the room with wings, even if it is loud and there are many people there I can’t get out to meet with. A bunch of perfectly good laps that are just begging for a cat to sit on and you won’t let me out of the hated bag. I will never understand you, hooman. But if I can make peace with the dog, I guess I can put up with you and your silly, crazy, stupid ways.
*Travelling Cat owns the hooman Taryn Blackthorne, who is a teacher and writer in Northern Manitoba, Canada. You can visit both Travelling Cat and Taryn at link. Both Taryn and Travelling Cat wish you a Happy Holiday and hope you get to spend it with your loved ones in celebration. And that you have many windows that are easy to get to.

I have been abducted.

I should have known something was up. Last week, the hooman (who ridiculously calls herself my mother, as if a hooman could give birth to a divine being such as myself) took out the Sherpa. I have no idea what this means in the hooman language, but I am sure in cat it stands for torture bag. I foolishly believed that she was merely cleaning, as she does often. She is sneaky, lulling me into a false sense of security. For days now, the hooman has been running around, filling large boxes on wheels with her removeable fur, saying we were going to be doing something called ‘car pooling’ to Grandma’s house. Grandma is the hooman who has the big windows and much food, and it is easy to convince her to give one treats for the price of a belly flop and a touching of noses (my own hooman has long since failed to be impressed by such simple devices, proving that I have chosen a much more intelligent member of their species. Curses). I had thought we would be going in the rumbly hooman boxes that has wings like a bird. But no, we go in the room-on-wheels.

This way seems to take longer. And I am confined to the dreaded Sherpa. But that is not all. For the Sherpa carries the torture devices called ‘leash’ and ‘harness’. The room-on-wheels makes many stops for the short ones (who seem excited to see me at least. Perhaps I will allow them to touch me at the next hooman ‘pee break’ but probably not) at something called ‘rest stops’. I am put in these devices and made to walk around the room-on-wheels, shown a litter box and offered minimal food and water. I do not see the point. Restricted to the Sherpa as I am (tied in with the same belt the hooman use to tie themselves to the chairs in the room-on-wheels, no less), I do little but sleep and rest. I do not need to stop to do this. Why do they? My hooman has brought a litter box for me in the room-on-wheels, I would be willing to share if it meant we were at Grandma’s faster. Ah, we approach what my hooman calls ‘the city’ and will be sleeping in what she calls a ‘whoo tell’. I must go. I will speak again soon.

Taryn Blackthorne and her cat are driving their way across Canada as part of summer vacation. You can read more of their adventures (and Travelling Cat’s diary entries) at www.tarynblackthorne.com

So Canada hasn’t beaten Russia in hockey since the 1960’s, at least in the Olympics. Sat down and watched the game tonight, which is totally unlike me, but I couldn’t stop myself. The whole country has been transformed into a wingnut’s paradise and it infected me. That’s my only excuse. I sat there for all three periods and thought that the only thing better than watching the game would have been being there. The stands blood red with jerseys and every throat must have been raw by the end of the game. I know I let out a yell or two myself. Especially when Staal went down.

Alas the writerly life. I have to work during the day to make the money to live out my dreams at the keyboard at night. Working two jobs has been taking its toll lately. That and we’re in the depths of winter up here in the Great White North, without a foreseeable break until late April. It’s like a slump in my training. I needed some get up and go, some serious inspiration! I needed to write this blog! So I slipped away and watched the team with Syd the kid (from my home province, not that I’m overly proud or anything) take Russia to school with a 7-3. And you know what? It was exactly the shot in the arm that I needed. The chapters I’m working on sped through my fingers! I’m excited about getting back to work tomorrow, for both jobs. Heck, I’m just excited and jazzed, right now.

Canada is playing for a medal! It’s our game! Let’s show the world how we bring it when you play on our pond! My heart is racing, I’m pumped for Friday’s game! Come on keyboard, we’ve got some writing to do!

This past week was Thanksgiving in Canada. I don’t know how other people do it, but we always tell some of our favourite stories around the table. The only requirement is that the stories are quirky and things for which we are thankful. I had two. One story was about how I met my friend, the other about how my cat found me.

A few years ago, I moved to a new city. I am notoriously shy in new surroundings. A colleague from my school suggested I accompany her to the local women’s group, the Kinettes, just to meet a few people and get out of the house. I went, resolute to sit quietly in a corner and observe the others; I didn’t want to participate. I was a guest. To this day, I still don’t know how I ended up working two charity events that weekend and standing for two hours in the local liquor store by the Salvation Army donation pot during Christmas rush, other than to tell you I was volun-told. But that is my friend. Motherly, overbearing, funny, she is the Cola goddess and she is wise. We are still friends and she makes me laugh just about every day.

I love to tell the story of how my cat adopted me. The shelter I got her from allows people to meet with a few chosen cats, just to see if the personalities will gel. As I wandered through the cages full of beautiful felines, my eye caught the most gorgeous black cat I’d ever seen. I was on my way over to admire her more closely when I realized my jacket was caught on something. I looked down to see a little multi-coloured paw firmly attached to my buttons. The kitty my jacket had attached itself to was very playful. I decided I would like to meet with both. The black goddess deemed me unworthy of notice so her staff returned her to her kennel. The staff then propped open the door outside to let some fresh air for her highness and went to get my second choice. The tortoiseshell cat leapt out of the arms of the woman carrying her, and instead of making a break for freedom ran right into the room where I was waiting, scurried up my leg, settled on my chest and proceeded to rattle my teeth with her purr. We’ve been together ever since.

If you were to sit at my table this past Thanksgiving, what story would you have told? Remember the two requirements, quirky and thankful. Please share, if not here then at my website http//.www.tarynblackthorne.com and have a wonderful holiday when it comes your turn, my American neighbours!

Summertime might mean a lot of things to different people. A few might be excited for the chance to go camping. Others might see this as the time for them to get their gardening done. Some might look forward to the family vacation to Disneyworld. Ever since I can remember, I’ve looked forward to the summer movie season. The quest for that summer’s great film became a ritual that my family still performs, though perhaps not as religiously as when we were all younger. Those summer adventures have been the pegs on which I hang some of my most important memories.

One of my favourite summer movies as a kid (I know I’m dating myself) was E. T. Here’s this unpopular kid who finds an alien! He gets special powers! He got to fly across the moon! I begged every relative I had in my small eastern town to take me. I saw it in the theatres five times, and whenever I hear John Williams’ score soaring it still takes my heart with it, racing across that moon. E.T. made one of the toughest summers I’ve ever had endurable.

As I grew up, other movies became the summer flick I had to go see as many times as I could. The Never-ending Story I saw while ‘suffering’ (insert preteen angst) through a family camping in P.E.I. Willow was playing in an old release theatre when I got to see on the big screen with my dad. Time spent alone with him was and is scarce and treasured. Independence Day was the next huge blockbuster I had to see with my friend who was soon to move away. Pirates of the Caribbean I saw with my mother just after her open heart surgery. The movies and memories always seem to go hand in hand.
I am moving this summer to a new city. I don’t know anyone there, yet. My next real-life adventure is going to be upon me too soon. But I look forward to finding this year’s summer flick, to tuck away in my memory box so I can say ‘That’s the movie I saw when…’

What’s your favourite summer flick movie or memory?

Why every writer should have a cat:
1. Cats are more intelligent than dogs and can seduce the muse to come to you with their witty repartee
2. Cats are more graceful than dogs and can inspire your words to flow from your pen (or fingers) with a fluid ease that would make other writers weep (except my darling who conjures images of a 15 pound bull in a china shop).
3. With a cat around, you will never fall into the trap of thinking you are God/dess; you are then strengthened for any criticisms.
4. They provide hours of endless entertainment!
5. Writing is lonely, and cats are content if they can curl up somewhere near you (in my case, it’s between me and my keyboard and/or screen but I really didn’t need to see in order to write), in case you need to know you aren’t all alone.

Why every writer should have a dog:
1. Dogs force you to interact with other people (even if it is with neighbours who would like to shoot you at 3am). This is fodder for scenes and characters.
2. Dogs force you to be active (you have to take them for walks or they go nuts, at least in my experience) which is good for the blood, then the brain, then the writing!
3. Dogs think you are God/dess, which is always good for when the critics tear you down.
4. They provide hours of entertainment!
5. Writing is lonely and you never know when your feet might get cold, so they both let you know they are there and serve a vital foot function.

After much debate, umms, ahhs, sighs of frustration and false starts, I decided to write a purely fun post for the blog today. It’s important to smile in these tough times. These lists are merely provided for entertainment purposes. I hope you enjoy.

My friends get the biggest kick out of telling new people that I’m a writer. No, scratch that, that I’m a published author. Go onto Chapters online and there you’ll see my name, sharing space with Kaye Chambers, emblazoned across my soon-to-be-released book. Yep, I’m an author. People’s eyes light up, they get ready to be impressed and they ask the next question. “What do you write about?”

I hate that question. It’s akin to asking me ‘what do you teach?’ Well, I teach children, actually. And I write characters that won’t leave me alone, pestering me to tell their stories. Or I think of this really cool what if and play with that all night long when I should be sleeping. Or my emotions just get too much for me and I put them in someone else and watch how they would deal with things. But that doesn’t answer the question. What do I write? They want a genre, a section in the bookstore to go to and find my cover. So when I answer ‘Paranormal’ you can usually see the light dim in their eyes. It’s even worse if I say romance. I have what my friend Kaye calls ‘genre shame’.

I shouldn’t. It’s what I write. It is no different than the grade I teach. I still teach kids. I still must call parents, meet with administration, follow curriculum and hold a degree and a license to teach. The same goes for writing. I still must create an interesting, well-crafted story that holds readers’ attention. It must be intelligent and well-thought; it must have good description and be moving emotionally. It must be researched and realistic. It takes a huge chunk of my time that could be used to knit or learn belly dancing or a hundred other things that people would not look at me with that slightly suspicious look in their eyes that says ‘oh, you’re like that’ which I hate.

I don’t know if there is a cure for genre shame or if it is just something I have to learn to get over. But I still write, because I can’t not write and it still comes out. So all those critics out there who look down their noses at me and my kin for what we write, I wave my hand and say onto you ‘I write Paranormal and Romance.’

Maybe I should get it on a t-shirt?