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You are now reading the blog of an award winning writer! Wow! I didn't know how wonderful it would feel to be able to say that! It has been almost 12 hours since I opened the email congratulating me on winning First Place in the 2010 Bess Streeter Aldrich Foundation contest for short stories. The glow still hasn't worn off, and I can still barely sit still long enough to force myself to type anything coherent.
"Curls of Gold," is one of the stories my grandmother, Elsie Kovanda Baucke, told me when I was growing up. It was one of my absolute favorite bedtime stories. I've been compiling her stories into a novel, entitled "Tales from Table Rock." I can almost smell the lilacs outside the window to the big front room where I would sleep in the huge sleigh bed when I stayed all night at Grandma's, and feel the patches on the quilts as she tucked them in around me as she asked me what story I wanted to hear before I went to sleep. Grandma was a master storyteller--and I think she'd be proud today.
My Aunt Aladeen told me about having to write a story for school. Of course, Grandma helped her come up with a tale. Aladeen got up and read her story to the class, and when she was done, her teacher crossed his arms, and commented, "I so love to hear your Mother's stories."
I agree! And today is another step in bringing her storytelling to a new audience.
Of course, I need to calm down enough to focus on writing!
Award Winning.... It makes me shiver!
Friday, March 26, 2010
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Plumbing the depths
2010 started off feeling rather like the doomsday predictions for 2012. Borrowing from popular culture, my facebook status changed from "married" to "it's complicated." That, combined with my granddaughter's ongoing battle with ITP, and my daughter's recent miscarriage I'm feeling raw, disjointed, and generally at odds with the world at large.
Now, for a paranormal mystery ROMANCE writer, this is particularly discomfitting. Venom and romance are not great bedpartners. At least not in a traditional romance novel happy-ever-after way. However, venom and romance do create a cauldron to brew some wicked horror. I'm mid-write on a co-authored horror novel with an amazing writing partner, D. Anthony Brown. Haven't heard of him? Trust me on this one, you will. My contributions to our co-authored "Forgotten Kiss" have most decidedly been adding the feminine romance touches to his dark horror. Come to think of it, "Forgotten Kiss" is without a doubt at its core a romance gone horribly awry.
But, I've never ventured out on my own into the horror realm. Writers cope with life by--well by writing. So, in that vein, I've been plumbing the depths of my pain and using it to fuel a series of short stories. You know what? I'm a writer. Piss me off and you risk meeting a horribly slow painful demise in my next story or novel!
What began as one short story for a challenge I issued to my writing group has grown into a series of short horror stories. "Baby Steps to Perdition." Isn't that how it always begins? One bad judgement, followed by a series of progressively worse decisions, until whammo! Think about it, in the aftermath of school shootings, terrorism, and domestic disturbances turned into bloodbaths everyone asks how it all began. One baby step at a time. That's how every heinous act begins. One baby step followed by another, and another, and another, until the most horrible act seems like the only option.
I have no doubt that I'll go back to paranormal mystery/romances, and will finish "Tales from Table Rock," the historical creative non-fiction I've put on temporary hiatus. And, I sense my writing will increase in depth for letting myself go to the darker parts of the human psyche.
Thank goodness I write. It beats the hell out of actually acting on all those dark feelings we all harbor from time to time.
Now, for a paranormal mystery ROMANCE writer, this is particularly discomfitting. Venom and romance are not great bedpartners. At least not in a traditional romance novel happy-ever-after way. However, venom and romance do create a cauldron to brew some wicked horror. I'm mid-write on a co-authored horror novel with an amazing writing partner, D. Anthony Brown. Haven't heard of him? Trust me on this one, you will. My contributions to our co-authored "Forgotten Kiss" have most decidedly been adding the feminine romance touches to his dark horror. Come to think of it, "Forgotten Kiss" is without a doubt at its core a romance gone horribly awry.
But, I've never ventured out on my own into the horror realm. Writers cope with life by--well by writing. So, in that vein, I've been plumbing the depths of my pain and using it to fuel a series of short stories. You know what? I'm a writer. Piss me off and you risk meeting a horribly slow painful demise in my next story or novel!
What began as one short story for a challenge I issued to my writing group has grown into a series of short horror stories. "Baby Steps to Perdition." Isn't that how it always begins? One bad judgement, followed by a series of progressively worse decisions, until whammo! Think about it, in the aftermath of school shootings, terrorism, and domestic disturbances turned into bloodbaths everyone asks how it all began. One baby step at a time. That's how every heinous act begins. One baby step followed by another, and another, and another, until the most horrible act seems like the only option.
I have no doubt that I'll go back to paranormal mystery/romances, and will finish "Tales from Table Rock," the historical creative non-fiction I've put on temporary hiatus. And, I sense my writing will increase in depth for letting myself go to the darker parts of the human psyche.
Thank goodness I write. It beats the hell out of actually acting on all those dark feelings we all harbor from time to time.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Mike's Writing Workshop post
This is a post I wrote for Mike's Writing Workshop on December 22nd. I thought it might be worthwhile to post it on my blog as well.
Merry Christmas to all,
Lisa Kovanda
It's now 11:35 pm, and I just finished a 13 hour shift at the big box retail store where I am a manager. In any event, it's fair to say that the next two days will be equally "pleasant." We are heading into a major winter storm here in Lincoln, Nebraska, so I can look forward to 3/4 of my staff calling in due to road conditions, but without a doubt, nearly all of the shoppers will show up.
As much as I lament the retail woes of holidays, this Christmas is different. Two days before her second birthday on December 7th, my granddaughter Abigail started getting huge bruises all over her body. Her mother is my 19 year-old daughter. She and her husband--also a 19 year-old--knew something was wrong, and carted her off to the doctor, even though they were terrified that not only would no one believe something was wrong, but that someone might think these awful bruises had been inflicted by them, and yank their daughter away from them.
Fortunately for them, and for Abigail, she saw the doctor that delivered her. He immediately called for lab tests, that showed Abigail's platelets dangerously low. She could have had a brain bleed sitting still they were so low. The "big word" for what she has is Idiopathic Thrombocytopenia Purpura. In English; she had a virus, her body made antibodies to kill the virus. Her anitbodies have also decided that platelets are viruses, and are killing them too. You can't just transfuse platelets, her body would simply destroy them.
By the time I met them at the hospital, she was in bad shape. Bleeding from her nose, mouth, and in her urine. Nearly every inch of her little body was covered in big, ugly bruises. I swear, it looked like she'd been beat with a ball bat. The nurses needed to start IV's to transfuse blood products to help stop the response, and as a former RN, I can tell you that sticking fragile two year-olds is not easy. There was lab to be drawn, and this poor baby couldn't clot to stop the bleeding from any of the needle pokes.
After all of the poking was done, and neon bandages were wrapped around her little arms, Abigail looked at the nurses and lab techs, smiled through her tear-swollen eyes and said, "Thank you."
Yes, I cried.
So did the big, burly lab tech.
She responded quickly to the immune globulin infusion, and we had high hopes she'd be one of the lucky kids who have this uncommon problem, but get over it with a single course of treatment. However, her platelet count has steadily dwindled. Today, she hovers right on the bubble of needing additional transfusions. Her condition could become a lifelong problem--if she survives to long-life. It's all a game of "if's."
To say that this adds stress to an already stressful holiday season is an understatement. It does force me to put things into perspective. My languishing manuscript will be there waiting for me to finish the polishing edits. I am fairly certain the big box retail store will keep on saving people money so they can live better no matter what I do. I didn't send out a single Christmas card, and everybody is getting gift cards this year. The holiday dinner might come from Stauffers, I don't care--it might just as easily come from the hospital cafeteria.
When my daughter, still a child herself, needs her mother's comfort, I'll be there. I'll be there when Abigail wants Nana to tell her a story. I'll be there when my son-in-law needs a friend, or when any of my other four children, assorted in-laws, or grandchildren need me. That's the spirit of Christmas in a nutshell.
My wish for all of you is a holiday filled with the important things in life. And economy be damned, that has nothing to do with the presents under the tree. I thank you for giving me a forum to share what wisdom Abigail's illness has taught me. I'm not ready to say "thank you" to the big things in life that poke me and make me hurt, but with some grace, I pray someday I'll be as noble as Abigail.
Merry Christmas.
Merry Christmas to all,
Lisa Kovanda
It's now 11:35 pm, and I just finished a 13 hour shift at the big box retail store where I am a manager. In any event, it's fair to say that the next two days will be equally "pleasant." We are heading into a major winter storm here in Lincoln, Nebraska, so I can look forward to 3/4 of my staff calling in due to road conditions, but without a doubt, nearly all of the shoppers will show up.
As much as I lament the retail woes of holidays, this Christmas is different. Two days before her second birthday on December 7th, my granddaughter Abigail started getting huge bruises all over her body. Her mother is my 19 year-old daughter. She and her husband--also a 19 year-old--knew something was wrong, and carted her off to the doctor, even though they were terrified that not only would no one believe something was wrong, but that someone might think these awful bruises had been inflicted by them, and yank their daughter away from them.
Fortunately for them, and for Abigail, she saw the doctor that delivered her. He immediately called for lab tests, that showed Abigail's platelets dangerously low. She could have had a brain bleed sitting still they were so low. The "big word" for what she has is Idiopathic Thrombocytopenia Purpura. In English; she had a virus, her body made antibodies to kill the virus. Her anitbodies have also decided that platelets are viruses, and are killing them too. You can't just transfuse platelets, her body would simply destroy them.
By the time I met them at the hospital, she was in bad shape. Bleeding from her nose, mouth, and in her urine. Nearly every inch of her little body was covered in big, ugly bruises. I swear, it looked like she'd been beat with a ball bat. The nurses needed to start IV's to transfuse blood products to help stop the response, and as a former RN, I can tell you that sticking fragile two year-olds is not easy. There was lab to be drawn, and this poor baby couldn't clot to stop the bleeding from any of the needle pokes.
After all of the poking was done, and neon bandages were wrapped around her little arms, Abigail looked at the nurses and lab techs, smiled through her tear-swollen eyes and said, "Thank you."
Yes, I cried.
So did the big, burly lab tech.
She responded quickly to the immune globulin infusion, and we had high hopes she'd be one of the lucky kids who have this uncommon problem, but get over it with a single course of treatment. However, her platelet count has steadily dwindled. Today, she hovers right on the bubble of needing additional transfusions. Her condition could become a lifelong problem--if she survives to long-life. It's all a game of "if's."
To say that this adds stress to an already stressful holiday season is an understatement. It does force me to put things into perspective. My languishing manuscript will be there waiting for me to finish the polishing edits. I am fairly certain the big box retail store will keep on saving people money so they can live better no matter what I do. I didn't send out a single Christmas card, and everybody is getting gift cards this year. The holiday dinner might come from Stauffers, I don't care--it might just as easily come from the hospital cafeteria.
When my daughter, still a child herself, needs her mother's comfort, I'll be there. I'll be there when Abigail wants Nana to tell her a story. I'll be there when my son-in-law needs a friend, or when any of my other four children, assorted in-laws, or grandchildren need me. That's the spirit of Christmas in a nutshell.
My wish for all of you is a holiday filled with the important things in life. And economy be damned, that has nothing to do with the presents under the tree. I thank you for giving me a forum to share what wisdom Abigail's illness has taught me. I'm not ready to say "thank you" to the big things in life that poke me and make me hurt, but with some grace, I pray someday I'll be as noble as Abigail.
Merry Christmas.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Decisions, decisions...
Well, after finishing the story about the Christmas program, I sent it to a couple of my writing partners, and most trusted friends. The general opinion is that it's good, but another of the Table Rock stories is better as a stand alone. The problem is, that story happens to be 2,700 words, or about a third longer than the contest guidelines. Is it possible to cut a third out of a story and maintain the essence of the story? It is 2 am, and I just pared it down to 1962 words. Once again, for someone who likes to write long descriptive passages, paring a story down to the bare bones is damn hard work. Now, I'll get those trusted friends and writing partners to weigh in on the side by side stories before a final editing pass on the final selection. Either way, I now have another story to add to the novel, and one will go in for the Aldrich contest. I'll let you know which one it will be soon!
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Ready to Edit
I'm working on a contest submission for a short story. I'm a novelist, so short is not something I do well, and this one is short. I mean really short, as in 2,000 words or less. It can take me that many words to just get rolling, so this will be a real challenge to keep within the guidelines, and still keep the essence of what I want to convey.
My story is the favorite of the bedtime stories my grandmother told me when I was growing up. It's a story of how a Christmas tree with real lit candles got knocked over in the schoolhouse where she was teaching.
I just finished the first draft, and I'm sitting at 2,065 words. Now for most writers, this might not be much of a problem, as their edits involve cutting words out. Unfortunately, when I edit, I tend to sometimes double my word count as I add in details. Emotions, sensory details, what does it feel like, look like, sound like, smell like... So, I guess that means I have my work cut out for me, as this is going to not be one of my "typical edits."
For now, it's blizzarding outside, and it's late. I'm going to pat myself on the back for finishing the story, and go get some sleep with a sense of accomplishment before I tear into the editing. Distance is always good as well.
The contest deadline is in February, so I'll keep you posted as I pare this story into submission shape.
My story is the favorite of the bedtime stories my grandmother told me when I was growing up. It's a story of how a Christmas tree with real lit candles got knocked over in the schoolhouse where she was teaching.
I just finished the first draft, and I'm sitting at 2,065 words. Now for most writers, this might not be much of a problem, as their edits involve cutting words out. Unfortunately, when I edit, I tend to sometimes double my word count as I add in details. Emotions, sensory details, what does it feel like, look like, sound like, smell like... So, I guess that means I have my work cut out for me, as this is going to not be one of my "typical edits."
For now, it's blizzarding outside, and it's late. I'm going to pat myself on the back for finishing the story, and go get some sleep with a sense of accomplishment before I tear into the editing. Distance is always good as well.
The contest deadline is in February, so I'll keep you posted as I pare this story into submission shape.
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