Shaken

By now you've probably heard about the earthquake in Oklahoma this morning. It was 5.6, centered a little north of Pawnee, OK, and we felt it in Pittsburg, KS. I was in bed when it felt like a strong person had grabbed the frame and was shaking it vigorously. I could hear items on the dresser rattling. My brain ruled out a passing truck and something hitting our house before it settled on "earthquake." It shook us a little, but no damage was done.

I've also been a little shaken figuratively.

When I first published Outsider, I thought I'd probably sell about three or four copies, mostly to family members. To my amazement, the people at work were excited to hear I'd been published. They lined up to buy the book and asked for my autograph. One even wanted to have her picture taken with me. This was followed by a whirlwind of books signings and an interview for the local newspaper.

Hindsight now tells me the truth: they thought "published" was the same as "famous." They thought I was already there ... and after a while, I believed it, too.

Lately, with book sales at zero, I've realized that we were mistaken. I'm not a failure, because I have four books published, but I'm not really successful either.

That's okay. Not everyone can be Stephen King or J.K. Rowling and I'm fine with that. The problem is that I spent too much time worrying that I didn't try hard enough or wasn't good enough ... and that's dried up my writing. That's not okay.

I'm going to try to go back to that feeling I first had when I saw Outsider pop up on amazon.com: happy and excited. I'm going to try to reacquaint myself with my characters. I might try to introduce myself to some new characters. Most of all, I want to reorient my thinking so that I don't obsess over how many books I've sold and instead concentrate on the joy of writing. That's what matters to me.

I was a little shaken, but I hope no damage was done.

Closing Ceremony

Tonight is the Closing Ceremony for the Olympics, which I always approach with mixed feelings.

On one hand, I'm a little relieved that I'll have more personal time. It seems I've spent the past two weeks alternating between work and the Olympics, to the detriment of housework or anything else.

On the other hand, I'm a little sad. I watch so much of the Olympics because there's always something to watch. There are sports I will never see on TV otherwise, so I can learn about them and see what I've been missing. There is plenty of drama and pageantry. There are the beautiful beaches and mountains.

But most of all, there are the athletes. I realize that we had a few this time who didn't exactly acquit themselves well, but those were a minority. Overall, I saw many inspirational people from all over the globe, who demonstrated humility, hard work and skill. I saw people in tears because they were able to compete against the best in the world ... and it didn't matter if they won a medal or not. They were at the pinnacle: the Olympics!

I saw people from all over mingling with each other, talking and sharing stories. Nationalities and religions took a back seat to connections, to humanity. They had more in common than they had differences.

And that is what I will miss the most. The Olympics offer us a glimpse of what we could all be: people with much in common, who want to win but never to humiliate, who recognize the skills in each other and respect them. We could all be the runner who tumbles to the ground, jumps to her feet and then stops to help her fellow competitor, even at the risk of her own victory. We could all reach out and shake hands.

There are many reasons that can't really happen, but the Olympics remind me of the possibilities.

So I say "thank you" to all of the Olympic athletes. May you have as much success in the rest of your lives as you did in showing us the meaning of sportsmanship and humanity.

How It All Began Part 2

Here's another excerpt from my first novel, Outsider. (Part 1 was last week. I hope you've read it!)

          Sean heard the cell door behind him slide open and turned to see a guard standing in the doorway.  It was the same one who had delivered his breakfast.

         The guard stepped into the cell and surveyed the contents, his eyes pausing on the bulky gray pressure suit hung on the wall next to the door, although he kept Sean within his peripheral vision.  Sean had already inspected the suit, finding it to be nothing more than a spacesuit with built-in oxygen supply but few accessories.  He’d never seen one up close, but there wasn’t much to see so he’d mostly forgotten about it since his first examination.

         “We’re having a safety drill,” the guard said.  “You’ll have to put that on.”

         “Safety drill?” Sean repeated.  “On the last day?”

         “Just put it on.”  The guard took a step back while Sean approached the spacesuit, and Sean noticed that he glanced once down the hallway.

         Sean struggled into the suit, which resisted his efforts to fasten it.

         “Let me help you,” the guard said.  “Keep your arms in the air.”

         Sean obeyed while the guard tugged at the zippers.

         “Where’s your partner?” Sean asked.

         “Busy.”  The guard paused.  “But he’d hear me if you try anything.”

         “I’m not in here for murder,” Sean said.  “You’re safe from me.”

         Sean noticed that the guard kept an eye on his prisoner’s hands while he secured the suit.

         “I don’t understand why this is necessary,” Sean said when the guard reached for the helmet.

         “Just a precaution.  I’ll be back to remove it when we’ve landed safely."

         Once the guard had locked the helmet in place, he said something, but Sean couldn’t hear the words.  After the guard backed out of the cell, Sean turned toward the porthole again and this time his eyes picked up movement out there, although it was a few seconds before he became aware of it.  There was a small cluster of stars coming toward him, which couldn’t be right.  Sean squinted at the moving lights until he recognized them as another spaceship, but he couldn’t see much of it because only the cockpit lights were on.  As he strained to make out any details of the ship, he realized that it had picked up speed as it approached.  Although the sight made him suspect that this was more than just a drill, he couldn’t figure out who would threaten a prison ship.  There couldn’t be anything of value on board.  Unless it was a case of mistaken identity, it just didn’t make sense.  Nevertheless, he instinctively ducked when the ship passed overhead.  Then he straightened up and laughed.  False alarm.

         There was a distant roar, barely audible through the helmet.  Sean checked to make sure the helmet was secure and then he felt ridiculous, standing there like an awkward monster, but that didn’t last long.  The next thing he knew, he was on the floor as the ship rocked.  He tried to grab at the bunk bolted to the floor but he slid away from it when the cell tipped.  He bounced off the wall back toward the cot and managed to grasp a leg of it.  He was rolled back and forth for several seconds.  Then there was an orange flash and everything around him disappeared in a yellow-white glare that burned itself onto his vision.  Try as he might, shaking his head and blinking, Sean could not dispel the painful glow his immediate world had become, a world in which he felt himself falling.  He was no longer holding onto anything and flailed his arms around wildly, trying to find something to break his fall.

          There was nothing.

Thanks for reading!

How It All Began

Here's an excerpt from the beginning of my first novel, Outsider.

            When Sean Foster woke up, he lay very still on the cot, letting his eyes focus on the wall in front of him. He felt full consciousness returning, but he wouldn’t let himself turn over, not until he reminded himself that he didn’t know where he was.

            He rolled over and his eyes swept the room, taking in the metallic-gray walls, the steel door, the porthole reflecting the harsh light from the ceiling. If he could just concentrate hard enough, he might convince himself he’d never seen this place before. His eyes settled on the light fixture in the ceiling, a rectangle of plastic covering the two fluorescent bulbs that simulated daylight. He tried to put all of his concentration into staring at the bulbs, one of which was just beginning to flicker a little, but then his ears betrayed him by picking up the faint hum of engines. Abruptly Sean saw the cell for what it was, and he put the palms of both hands to his eyes before he sat up.

            It was stupid to think that’d work anyway, he thought as he looked down at his dull brown uniform.

            By now he knew the sequence: first brief terror, then anger, to be followed eventually by resignation. Once he reached that point, Sean slouched back against the wall, staring at the beige loafers waiting on the floor beside the cot. He knew it was no use asking the guards again for something to read; there was nothing to do but wait.

            His thoughts were interrupted by a jarring sound of metal scraping metal. The door of the cell slid open slowly and two guards appeared beyond it, one holding a tray while the other rested a hand on his holstered gun.

            “Breakfast.” The guard holding the tray was husky, with no trace of flab, and he stood a few centimeters taller than Sean. He had a face resembling a wind-carved sand dune, topped by short, black hair. His dark eyes checked the cell, as they had every other time he delivered a meal here, but the scan had become cursory by now.

            Sean stayed where he was, knowing the routine. This allowed the guard to enter the cell and set the tray on the floor just inside the door before stepping back again.

            “Thanks,” Sean offered.

            “Yeah,” the guard said on his way out. After Sean heard the lock take hold, he retrieved the tray and sat back on the cot to eat. It was the usual, a couple of tasteless pancakes with a tiny squirt of syrup, a crumbling piece of toast that soaked up the egg pretty well, a cup of orange juice, and some weak coffee, each in its own little plastic container. Sean no longer noticed the food; eating was merely something to do. Today, however, he didn’t do much of it, barely managing to down the toast and juice before he had to give up. There was no use forcing himself, so he set the tray next to the door and returned to his position on the cot. The guard didn’t comment when he came to pick up the tray half an hour later.

            A few moments after that, Sean turned his head to look at the porthole again. He could still recall his mental images when his apologetic lawyer first mentioned space: purple aliens, flashy spaceships soaring past brilliant planets, glittering asteroid showers. It had all seemed exciting enough, but he had yet to actually see any of it. From his position on the bunk now, the glaring reflection of the ceiling light made the void beyond the porthole invisible. He didn’t want to look out again, but then he thought, twenty years, and that was enough to get him off the cot and across the short distance to the porthole. This might be his last look for another lifetime—at least it seemed like that to someone only twenty-four years old—so he might as well take advantage of it.

            As he bent toward the small glass circle, he caught a glimpse of himself reflected there: Sean Foster, a medium-sized young man whose light-brown hair needed a comb and whose brown eyes looked a little puzzled. Some hardened criminal, he thought.

            His image blurred into the void outside the spaceship. As usual, all he could see were stars. There were billions of them out there, more than he’d thought possible, but they were only a temporary distraction from boredom and, especially today, dread. It was the third day, so the ship must be nearing its destination. He pressed his nose against the cold glass, wondering without enthusiasm if he would see the prison planet before it became merely the ground under his feet. At the thought of a prison door slamming shut behind him, Sean felt fear crawl up his spine and over his shoulder blades to nestle in his hair. It didn’t matter what space was really like because he wouldn’t see it again for twenty years, maybe more if they forgot about him. He was so far from his lawyer, the courts, anyone who might care about him, that he might as well have ceased to exist. Sean had been caught off guard by his sentence, but he wasn’t going to let the horror of the prison term sneak up on him, too.

Please feel free to leave a comment. You can purchase Outsider or any of my other novels by clicking on the images on the right side of this page. Thanks again for reading!

If you haven't already, please read the Featured Post to the right for new information about this blog.

Three Years

Believe it or not, today marks the three-year anniversary of this blog! (It doesn't look like it because my first official post was July 28, 2013, but that's because I accidentally deleted the first post from July 23! I was off to a great start there.)

It's hard for me to believe that I've written posts weekly for that long. It's hard to believe I found that much to say. I don't consider myself particularly thoughtful or opinionated, so it makes me wonder what all of those posts were about! Ha.

I would like to thank you if you've read one, all or some of my posts. I'm not exactly sure how many readers I have out there, but I thank all of you.

Here's the latest news on Diane McCallum and the Penumbra series. My fourth novel, The Other Side, is published and awaiting copyright registration. It's also in the local bookstore, Spellbound, so be sure to check it out! There is a fifth novel, but it needs so much work that I can assure you it will not be out for more than a year. I have a tentative title, but it might be a while before I release that.

I intend to release news about the fifth novel when I feel there's something worth mentioning.

However, the weekly blog is going to have to stop. I'm very sorry, but I am truly running out of things to say! When I have a novel that I'll be releasing soon, that keeps the ideas coming and I don't have any trouble writing a blog, but when there's no novel scheduled, that leaves a bit of a void (especially in my brain!). I've spent three years pushing to get the word out there and I won't just stop, but I have to take a break. That way I can spend more time on the fifth novel.

Please be assured that this blog won't die. If a certain team wins a certain series, you'll probably hear something about that. If a thought strikes me, I'll share it, whether you want to know or not! When there's progress on the next novel, I'll let you know that, too. My goal is to write something at least once a month. If I find that I'm posting at a particular time of the month, I'll let you know, but I'm afraid I can't give you any specifics right now. You can also follow me on my Facebook page: DianeMcCallumAuthor

Please keep spreading the word to your friends and family about the Penumbra series. I'd love to share my novels with a lot of people. My dream is to have people discussing the characters and plot (especially if I get to hear the discussion).

Thank you again for reading this blog and putting up with me. I will try to post again next week, just to round it out, and then we'll see what happens. Please check back!

Go, Cubs

The All-Star Game has come and gone. We're back into regular-season baseball. Yikes.

As you probably know, I'm a baseball fan. In fact, I'm a Cubs fan. In previous years, that was enough to earn me sympathy from friends and family. It remains to be seen what it will mean this year.

I was able to watch the team on TV today (they lost, but played well), and I realized with a jolt that now it's starting to get scary. Each game will mean a little more. The upcoming trade deadline means that I have to worry about who will stay and who will go. The standings will occupy a little more of my concentration.

This half of the season is so different than the first half! While the first half is full of hope and discovery, this half holds more tension and, possibly, heartbreak.

But we can't have one without the other. The team has battled this far and they're going to keep battling. They're not going to quit, so I can't either. I will follow them to the end, whether it's bitter or sweet.

But I promise this: as long as the Cubs play hard and well, I'll cheer for them no matter what happens in the autumn. That's what a fan does. We pour our hearts out in the stadium, in our living rooms, in bars, wherever we happen to be. We celebrate the victories and mourn the losses. We believe, and we express that belief.

We don't take our frustrations out on the team. As long as they're trying, they don't deserve blame. After all, we're the ones who chose to be fans. We're the ones who chose this particular team. Nobody forced us.

And look what they do for us. They let us escape. They let us forget the darker side of human nature and believe in the light side. They let us admire the beauty of a blue sky, green grass and the arc of a white ball. They remind us of what makes summer good. And then the standings seem a little less important.

You can tell me it's just a sport, and I acknowledge that. History will not be changed by the next Cubs game. But I might.

Break It Up

I read a book last week that had a very complex but interesting plot, as well as characters that seemed well-rounded. It was a thriller and it kept me reading throughout, even though it was 400 or so pages. When I put it down, I thought that I might like to read more by the author, except for one thing: I don't want to wade through conversations that are very hard to follow anymore.

It's a shame, but we all have to decide where to concentrate our reading, since there are SO MANY books out there. Maybe I'm being unfair to this writer, but it's also not fair to read a book while thinking how frustrated I am with the writing. So I'll spare the writer further denigration. (Obviously, I'm not going to name the writer here.)

I've already written a blog about how to use "he/she said" and here it is: He/She Said

Now I'm going to expand on the fourth method: not using "said" at all.

This is my own example that I just made up, but it gives an idea of what I was seeing:

     "You can't do that." She took a step back and frowned.

Who do you think made that statement? "She," right? Wrong! In several cases, the writer would have a statement like that and follow it immediately with the listener's reaction in the same paragraph.

Please don't do this to your readers! I was forced several times to go back to where "Jack said" told me who was speaking. Then I had to count lines down to this statement to find that Jack said it and his girlfriend was reacting to Jack saying it. Very confusing!

The solution is so simple:                                 Or even better:
     "You can't do that."                                         "You can't do that," Jack said.
     She took a step back and frowned.                 She took a step back and frowned.

Whenever you have two people speaking and reacting to the other's statements, please make it clear who is speaking and who is reacting. You don't have to use "Jack said" on every other line, but don't mix characters. If the statement is made by one person and then another person speaks or reacts, put that in a separate paragraph.

Give it a try. Your readers will thank you.