Stickman

While cruising for inspiration, I came across a website that had me drawing a stick man. When I finished that little task, I hit the done key and the stick man went into action. He came upon a box with a lock. "Hmm," he says, "draw me a key." Let me summarize, he came across a curious box, the box became the goal, the key the solution. Problem solved. Except the box popped open and a dragon popped out. You might call the dragon an antagonist. Now we have a compelling situation. The stick man has a dragon to slay. Stick Man's priorities have changed for the moment.

Solution: Stick Man wants a sword. I draw him a sword and he fights the dragon, but the dragon fights back by breathing fire and setting everything aflame. Stick Man finally slays the dragon. Problem solved. Except the dragon dissipates and a box with a balloon attached replaces the dragon and floats away out of Stick Man's reach. Grrr. Before Stick Man can wrap his head around this new development, he must extinguish the fire. Stick Man wants a rain cloud. I draw him a rain cloud and, predictably, rain falls on the fire and puts it out. Problem solved. Except it keeps raining and floods.

Stick Man floats upward with the rising water, thinking he could now reach the airborne box. That's when the sharks show up and surrounded him, threatening to eat him. Stick Man implores me to draw a drain, which I do. The water drains, the sharks go away and the balloon breaks. The man lives happily ever after. The End.

That's a story. It's simple, compelling, full of drama. It got me to thinking. Stick Man is the hero, he has a goal, there's a problem, an obstacle (antagonist)and in the end, Stick Man will be a better person for it.

It's a bit simplistic, but it's got the framework for an interesting story. It would make a great child's story, don't you think. I was thinking it might be grounds for a basic outline. What do you think?

In Transition, slathered with hope

You may not remember because I've been absent from the blogging world for so long, that I was going to retire and relocate back to the Northwest to the home we bought way back last December. Wow, has it been nearly nine months? I could have had a baby by now. It's physically immpossible, however. Slowly, we are dismantling from one location and re-establishing in another. We're moved into our new home, but still need to put the other on the market. But, there's work to be done. We've been in the new house for a month and,sadly, will be leaving here next week to get busy and get the old house on the market. Pray that we get a quick and fruitful sale.

I haven't had a lot of quality writing time. I seem to get bogged down and my natural state of procrastination sets in and I get lazy. I prefer to think of it as getting busy. What keeps us from our love of writing? I know I'm not alone. Has anyone been able to figured out how we can love to write, yet sabotage what we love to do with excuses and avoidance? For me it usually happens when I'm in a difficult place in the story and doubt rears its ugly head. Mentally I know it only takes a day or so to work my way out of it, but I get this dread feeling and have to psych myself back to the keyboard.

Soon, I'll be able to get my priorities in line. Please don't give up on me.

Bum's Rush, The Novel, (An Excerpt)

This is the time I've been looking forward to for years--being able to continue my blogging and promoting my books, not to mention writing them. It will be easier since I no longer have a job to take up most of my time with.

I'm going to post segments of Bum's Rush for your inspection in hopes of wetting your appetite to pop over to Amazon.com and check out the "Look Inside" option to read more excerpts.

I'll also be talking about my new novel, That Girl. I'll occasionally post some excerpts from that right here.

Here's the first excerpt from Bum's Rush. I hope you enjoy it.

Something slammed into Jack with the force of a jousting pole. He grunted and staggered as a million watts of electricity passed through his body. The phone skittered on the sidewalk, and he clutched his shoulder. Someone screamed, then someone else. He looked around at the commotion, but his vision had gone fuzzy; he felt lightheaded, and a shrill ringing in his ears deafened him.

Jack looked at his hand and saw blood. That’s strange. His heart spiked in his chest. He’d been shot, damn it; he was going to die.