Kathryn Magendie

About Kathryn Magendie

Kathryn Magendie is an Amazon Kindle Bestselling Author of five novels and a novella, as well as short stories, essays, and poetry —Tender Graces was an Amazon Kindle Number 1 bestseller. She’s a freelance editor of many wonderful authors' books and stories, a sometimes personal trainer, amateur/hobby photographer, and former Publishing Editor of The Rose & Thorn Journal (an online literary journal published with Publishing Editor Poet/Songwriter Angie Ledbetter). Magendie’s stories, essays, poetry, and photography have been published in print and online publications. From her porch over-looking the Great Smoky Mountains she contemplates the glow of Old Moon—Cove Crow and his family speak to her and she listens.

To Those Who Encourage Us To Write & To Dig A Whole Lot Deeper: T’anky!

March 9, 2019 By Kathryn Magendie 10 Comments

If I chance to talk a little wild, forgive me … (from King Henry VIII)

I forgive you William Shakespeare, and I love you for it too, for I’ve often felt a little wild, talked a little wild, written a little wild, been a little wild.

Oh, but it wasn’t always so that I loved you (or the idea of you). There was a time when I just didn’t get you, dear William. I’d hear your name reverently fall from trembling lips and I’d shrug. I’d attempt to read your plays, and attempt is a generous word to use, and I’d put down the play and roll my eyes. I’d even watch adaptations of your plays with their modern themes and I’d change the channel.

Why, really, folks, Mr. Shakespeare mostly ragged on my ragged nerves with all the whilsts and whatnot.

But then, maybe seventeen, eighteen, or so years ago, before my move back to my mountain-birth-roots in and through and among the Appalachian Mountains, old mountain woman I am, was, and always will be (even when I lived in the swampylands of South Louisiana), I took a Shakespeare class at Louisiana State University. Um, not because I really wanted to learn about Shakespeare, but because it was taught by Barbara Gray, a professor I’d had a class with before and found her an engaging teacher, one who really did seem to love her job—well, that and this class was one of the only choices left to me. I was forced to take it. Yeah.

Even now, I wonder what has become of Barbara Gray. Last I saw her, I was visiting Baton Rouge during Mardi Gras and spotted her at a parade with a pair of bright pink panties on her head—perhaps I am remembering that incorrectly, but my recollection is of hilarious surprise that the Barbara Gray who so aptly and beautifully and with grace taught this Shakespeare class was hoopin’ it up at a parade with something bright and weird and wonderful and sexnicious atop her Great Head.

But, I digress, as I love to do! I digressify with the best of ′em—anyway . . . .

I remember worrying in that first week or two of class that I’d never figure out what Shakespeare was trying to say, or if he was laughing to himself as he made stuff up just to flummox us all—what a jokester he was! I mean, really, greater more intellectually gifted people than I had studied Shakespeare and they all still argue about his works and him.

But, through Barbara Gray’s imagination and calm intelligence (well, she was calm in class anyway – haha!), and a whole lot of patience, she led her students through the dense forest of words and phrases, the very brilliance and wonder and unique—the unique that ironically so much cliché has been formed—that is our William Shakespeare. I had to learn to pick apart his plays limb by limb. And even so, half of it I still skimmed over all glassy-eyed (and still do). With respect, William, I was veritably bored (and still am) when I had to read your plays, and woe is me if I had to read any of your smooshy sonnets. But, it’s the deeper understanding that fascinated me and fascinates me still.

The words, language, yes, okay, whatever. But those characters! Those tortured, wayward, murderous, wanting, lovelorn, brave, adventurous, cravenous, delicious characters! [Read more…]

Will We Read On? Or Put Down The Book? Sometimes It’s The Little Things

February 9, 2019 By Kathryn Magendie 28 Comments

There is not a writer in all the land who can write to please everyone. We simply cannot please everyone. Never-ever-ever! However, as readers we can sometimes unrealistically expect some sort of perfection—and if we are a writer and/or editor reading, perhaps we are a bit more arrogant in our persnickityness.

For me, it may begin that way as I read the first few chapters of a book, a sort of noticing too much, but then something magical happens and I tap in to the rhythm of the character’s world, and soon I am swept away! I love it when that happens—and if it doesn’t happen or something akin to it, soon I put down the book.

As writers, we do what we do and put our passion and love and work and angst—well, all that stuff—into our words and worlds. But that’s not enough. We must also know the whys and hows of some rules sometimes, even if only to break the rules effectively and with glee. Wheee!

Our stories become lyrical and strong when we pay attention not only to rules, but when we take care of/with our manuscripts so that our characters come alive and the reader forgets about the writer and is swept away.

Grammar rules are not as subjective as are those “rules” Some Writer or Person or Someone Somewhere Who We Often Call “They” suggest we follow (and often “They” are correct). The RSWOPOSSWWOCT can vary from writer-to-writer and reader-to-reader and editor-to-editor. That makes things so super clear, doesn’t it? haha!

I hate putting down a book. Hate it! I won’t often do this and it takes a badly written messy book for me to toss it, but if I think a writer didn’t give a crap enough to clean up their manuscript, then why should I care enough to read their work?

Bad book tossing aside, there are things here and there that will bug me enough to bump me out of a story, and, if I am bumped enough, I may close the cover and never open it again.

Here’s a few:

The Surrrpriiiiiise! Ending. The one that makes me, your reader, feel cheated, as if I were along for the ride only to be kicked out of the car as the driver laughs and laughs at my dumbfounded expression. Or perhaps that hit-a-brick-wall feeling—I’m in that metaphorical car again but this time the driver runs smack into a brick wall while going “AHA! I got YOU!” I suppose the Surprise Ending is coupled with the I Just Ended It Here ending.

Surprise endings are great and wonderful, if the writer is effective in writing the ending that leaves the reader breathless with “Oh . . . my . . . god! I did not see that coming, but how COOL!” If your ending is only meant to “shock” the reader for shocks-sake, then you are going to piss me off.

The piss-off-a-reader ending is one you stick on the end because you are in a hurry to finish the story, or you just can’t figure out how to pull your character(s) out of the mess they made, or you are bored, or you are ready to move on to another story, or—you get the idea, right? Yes? No? Wheeee—ain’t writtin’ fun! [Read more…]

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Mathematical Equations of Perfection in Nature

January 12, 2019 By Kathryn Magendie 8 Comments

Photo Credit: Pictoscribe – Fibonacci Math

Nobody’s perfect, I thought by myself to myself, as I walked my mountain cove one spring morning.

I am measuring me against me. The time of writing consistently and arrogantly and prolifically against the me now who watches her bank account as if it may disappear while sleeping—and it often does, what with auto-pay ripping out its due. There should never be a time in an author’s life when what you loved so fervently and beautifully is placed away on a shelf while Real Life Stuff, like work to pay bills, takes priority. But any sentence that begins with “there should never be a time …” is often an idealistic wishful thought.

There is not a perfection of time, or place, or words, or language, or books, or people.

What’s all this stuff around me? Growth and abundance where just a month before was brown and sticks and sepia tones. Huh.

I inhaled clean mountain air. Alongside the road I walked that morning many wildflowers and wild plants, some unique and rare and beautiful, grow in a seemingly random way. Is it random, though, after all? A daisy caught my eye, then another and another. My eye focused, refocused, honed in. There. The inside of the daisy. That circle. How can it look so perfect yet so random and imperfect?

I asked my dog, who often indulges me. Lil Bear has listened to me spout off about characters and places and things without boredom. Because, my friends, there is really nothing more boring than to hear a writer talk about his or her book. I refuse to do that to anyone, except my dog, or inside my own crowded head. If someone asks, “What is your book about?” I know they really do not want to know more than a sentence or two, perhaps three if I say it really energetically—and if they want more, they’ll ask for more, and really, how often does that happen? haha! So, I asked Bear, “Is there a perfect, absolutely perfect, circle of yellow inside that flower? A perfect so perfect it can be measured mathematically? There is an equation for it. I think I read that somewhere. Or saw it on Nova. Yeah. And it’s called the Fibonacci Sequence or something like that. And it’s all over nature, and art, and music, since time began even, since the big bang, since . . . .”

My dog yawned. Well, there goes my “he’s never bored” statement shot all’a to hell.

I am not a mathematician, and indeed, mathematics puzzles me, frustrates me—always logical, always right, always perfect? I am such a Right-Brainer, if we will speak in stereotypes and clichés, and we do! we will! I imagine the right hemisphere of my brain is swollen and pulsing, the synapses firing off chaotically, but with their own kind of weird organization caused by complete disorganization’s attempts to make sense of it all; however, I imagine my left hemisphere as a bit flat and aloof, sitting stoic at a desk while reading important stuff that it won’t share with the right brain (because the right brain can’t, or won’t, listen).

If I could merge my left and right sides better, as many may be able to do, I could write books with intricate fantastical plots! I could perhaps make the gorgeous black hole in my brain open up the darkness and provide in more detailed logic what hides there. Alas. Dang.

I wonder, if a mathematician were to measure the golden inside of the daisy (and I am certain this has been done, of course!), would it be an absolute circle every single time for every single daisy? The eye finds an imperfectly perfect circle. I need to know, for the eye gauge is not enough, since the brain will imply and waver and be indecisive and wander and wonder and is awfully awesomely fickle at times. Is the soft sun inside of the daisy chaotic and wild or controlled and perfect, or something in between? Who will measure for me and then let me know?

I just have a need to know if there is some order to the daisy that I never noticed before. You see? No? Yes? Are you yawning? I bet you are. Dang. [Read more…]

Christmas Lists: Then (Tangible) and Now (Intangible)

December 8, 2018 By Kathryn Magendie 20 Comments

Photo Credit: “Black Running Stallion” by Alex Gavvy

Ah Christmas. It’s just over two weeks away. Plenty of time to make your lists and check them twice, right?

At various stages of Kid-dom, my Christmas list would read something like this:

Real Candy, with Chocolate—not that hard stuff, and please no fruit (Santa, fruit is not nature’s candy—you ain’t foolin’ nobody)
Baby Doll with a Stroller (I know, Santa, you gave me one last year but my bratty brothers threw a rock through the stroller and shaved all the hair off baby doll)
Barbie (Huh, and I know the difference between Midge or Marge or some other knockoff)
Bike (hey, Santa, a new one would be nice, but used is fine, too, since I know they are expensive)
Pack of Go Fish Playing Cards
Parcheesi
Checkers
Horse—not a stuffed animal but a Real Horse—a black stallion that rears up and paws the air
Books—Black Beauty, Black Stallion, The Incredible Journey, Call of the Wild, or any book about dogs or horses or wolves
A pair of black and a pair of white shiny vinyl knee-high boots
Blacklight and Poster

And with the exception of the horse (dang), I received those gifts in one form or another.

All of those gifts are tangible. One can purchase the item, wrap it up, and put it under the tree. Well, except for the horse. And though I knew the probability of having a horse was Probably Never, that didn’t stop me from racing to the window every Christmas and checking to see if my horse was tied up to the sweet gum tree in our front yard, pawing the air and shaking its mane and looking me right in my eyes with a gaze that said “No one can ride me but you…!” Yeah. Hope springs and all that. Though magical, a horse is still a tangible gift, albeit an unrealistic one (at least unrealistic for me; my best friend did receive a horse for Christmas, siiiiigh).

At various times in my life we were pretty danged poor, so some of my listed items weren’t easy to come by—as a matter of fact, we kids didn’t really make lists. If we were asked, we’d state our wishes. Maybe some years we’d write a few things down. The lists were never long.

SPOILER ALERT! Cover the kiddies’ eyes! (I’ll place the “read more” tab here; I mean, just in case, y’all.) [Read more…]

In South Louisiana, They Will Feed Your (Sensory) Senses

November 10, 2018 By Kathryn Magendie 10 Comments

Photo Credit: Chris Goldberg “Beignets at Cafe du Monde – French Quarter – New Orleans, Louisiana”

I spent a good many years hiding in books—whether writing them or reading them. Basically, I hid. Like a little coward. I recognize how afraid of everything and everyone I have been. I’m still working on some of that. Yet. Now I see the need to explore and experience, for I know discovery will improve my writing, and my life.

Though I was born in the mountains, I spent a good many years in South Louisiana. My Virginia Kate Sagas hold South Louisiana (and West Virginia—where I was born) at the heart of them.

I recently visited South Louisiana and was reminded of the unique nature of Place, and how important a role it plays in our work. How the sensory details we add to our work enrich it in so many important ways. A reader will feel and see and taste. I have my own need to feel and see and taste.

If you go to South Louisiana you will be fed, and you will be fed often, and you will be fed cheerfully. Residents of South Louisiana think that if you are not living in South Louisiana, well then, you are starving! You are lacking in what is known as “good eatin’!” Go to South Louisiana and be prepared for the onslaught of sights and sounds and aromas (and odors) assaulting your senses. Taste the spice, which is not just pepper and cayenne and Tabasco as some restaurants outside of South Louisiana seem to think, but the eclectic mix of seasoning.

I’ve enjoyed quite a bit of Louisiana food, though some of the food I mention here is not for me, no matter how well prepared and seasoned; there are some things I just will not no way no how put in my mouth—nope.

The gulf shrimp, the oysters, the catfish, the boudin, the boiling frying grilling blackening, couchon de lait, fried raccoon leg (with the lower leg fur and foot still attached—I saw this at a street fair, ugh), powder-sugar-dusted beignets, jambalaya, turtle soup, frog’s legs, gumbo, etouffee, cracklins, crawfish, community coffee, bread pudding, George’s under the interstate, Diguilio’s, Gino’s, Don’s, Hymel’s—which is part grocery, part bar, part gas station—the bait stores that are also groceries with cheeses and wines and Stage Plank gingerbread, French bread, King’s Cake, unidentified stuff on a stick. At Roux 61 where I forced myself to taste a tiny bite of fried alligator (it’s weirdly stereotypical-chickeny but also chewy and it freaks me out) they offer hamburger poboys loaded up with batter-fried bacon of which I absolutely did not eat no matter how much my friends cajoled and urged and laughed at my look of horrified wonder.

You can’t throw a tiny bitty rock a block without hitting a place that offers food. Even the smallest most awkward looking eatery knows how to cook with those spices, and knows how to fry up anything you hand them. Anything. Oh, and your friends or their friends or someone somewhere will cook for you too.

Gary Carden, a local favorite Storyteller here in our mountains, wrote some really great things about my Tender Graces book, and in that review he said the novel had so much food in it, he had a bit of heartburn by time he finished reading it. Made me laugh so much, even now I’m laughing as I type this. Food is such a huge part of all of our cultures, and in South Louisiana—well, I don’t know, it is just somehow different and just so much … more. You have to be there. Go see for yourself. [Read more…]

The Tiny Former Planet

October 13, 2018 By Kathryn Magendie 6 Comments

At one time Pluto, though the smallest in the solar system and the farthest away (as far as we knew of what we know), was a regular old planet and a part of the Nine Planets some of us grew up reciting in school using a mnemonic that may or may not have made sense, such as: My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nine Pizzas. But one fine day Pluto was flung out of its A Part of the Whole planet status in our galaxy, left to drift there in the cold and dark. Perhaps because scientists felt so sorry for Pluto in all its lonely isolation, and perhaps they caved a bit at the outcry from Pluto Enthusiasts Everywhere, that they upgraded it to a Dwarf Planet. A consolation prize that didn’t lessen the sting so much as make Pluto feel its pride surging up but its feeling of former belonging to the Great Group surging down.

Though Pluto’s status in the galaxy changed, Pluto had not changed other than the natural changes that occur with any living thing. Pluto was doing as it always did, so far away in its own little world. Pluto is so difficult to explore and know about, since it’s so far away, that it is often misunderstood—and even so, it relays its heart on its pale face, sending messages of please love me! I am worthy! while at the same time keeping its distance away from all the others. A strange contradiction.

A Dwarf Planet is called this because it is so little it cannot clear other objects out of its path. Oh, my friends, some of us do relate to that . . . right? We see obstacles of every size and though we may feel mighty, we can’t seem to clear the way—and we see the other planets big and important doing what we struggle with and that only make us feel smaller and lonelier. We begin to feel this ineptness creep up on us. That inept feeling erodes and causes us to flounder. It’s all too much! we wail. And, it is.

One day on earth is 24 hours. But on Pluto? One day is the equivalent of 6 and ½ days. Time drags on slowly and methodically, though at the end of it, how much was accomplished? It feels as if we squandered that six and one-half days. On Pluto, we see all the busy people accomplishing in one Earth day what it takes us almost a week to do—because it’s all on us. Things pile up. Home repairs, cleaning up after ourselves, food shopping, bill paying, dog care, work. We’re pocked by the obstacles smacking us senseless and we cannot clear the way because we are, or feel, so tiny. [Read more…]

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Letting Go Of The Negative Dark Cycle

September 8, 2018 By Kathryn Magendie 14 Comments

Photo Credit: Dalma Szalontay – “A surreal ride … There is nothing so good that can not be improved …”

Recently, I had this weird sensation come over me. What is this feeling? This … this thing? Well, what do you know? I was feeling contentment. Huh. Dang! And having that acceptance and contentment, and happiness, slap me upside my hard head had me think about the journey to finding some peace and joy.

After my father’s death six years ago, where there was no sudden last pages of a novel having us say all the things we never said and as the reader comes to The End, with little pearls of tears glistening, The End is resolved rather satisfyingly, the only peace that came was right before I felt my father’s pulse slow, slow, erratic beat, stop, and a man who was never ever still, a man who was loud and so THERE in any room he filled with that frenetic jittery energy, was suddenly so so very unnaturally awfully still, and that glimpse of peace I mentioned came moments before he died, when I held his hand and I fitfully dozed and there came a quick and sudden dream of a beautiful blue horse galloping into the sky, up up up and out of sight.

After that, for reasons known and unknown when we face an unexpected not-so-go-gentle-into-the-good-night death of someone important, Pandora’s Box rend asunder and I began to uproot many things in my life, walked away from some, ran from others, and through my scrambling amok both good and bad and in between, circumstances led me to have to give up the pretty sweet deal of being a writer full time so I could step out into a big empty space of possibility. Instead of thinking as an adult and being wise and all grown-uppy about it, I stumble-bumbled myself willy nilly** into messes and not-good-for-me men and right into a dark abyss of snarl. (It’s a big eye-opener to realize that you’ve approached much of your adult life with a child’s eyes and not a grown woman’s eyes—ouch, that recent insight was painful to admit!)

But, hey! From that murky crapitude I stepped into the light time and I didn’t even acknowledge the complete change rising up in me because I was so used to being Oh, It’s Just That Cray Cray Kathryn.

No miracle happened. My books didn’t suddenly fly off shelves, or even make it to a lot of shelves. I haven’t had time to write the book I so desperately want to have much more time to write; the bills still come, the mortgage still needs to be paid, I have to eat; you know, all those grown-uppy thangs.

So what changed to make the change?

Welp, y’all, it’s how I perceive my world and how I want to live in it and who I want to live with in it. This growth took a lot of uncomfortable looking in the mirror, and, ugh, soul-searching—double ugh (thus, the child’s eyes discovery).

So, when you are feeling negative, or like a “failure,” or struggle with whatever big dark bug has you in its scrabbly-legged grip, maybe my do and don’t ‘list’ will help you, or perhaps, as we are all different even in our collective sameness, you just need to make your own.

Don’t!

Don’t drink too much. Okay, maybe you’ll allow yourself that one night where you slug down some vodka and dance around the living room to techno trance before feeling sorry for yourself and throwing your glass against a tree and railing against your fates and then curl into a ball in a chair and sob and fall asleep and wake up with your mouth dry and your pea-headed brain full of cotton and then unsteadily climb into your bed where you wake the next day feeling like crap on a stick that’s been beaten against a glass-littered tree. Find another way to cope with stress and anxiety. No scenario has you drinking too much and then going, “Sure am glad I did that! I feel great now! All my problems are SOLVED!” Yeah . . . no. Which leads me to . . . .

[Read more…]

Gas-X for Writers** – Results May Vary

August 11, 2018 By Kathryn Magendie 8 Comments

photo credit: Rob Albright “Paperback Writer”

The writing life is a whole shit-ton of guessing and experimenting and hoping, and then finding someone to tell us that we stink in some places and are pretty brilliant in others.

Knowing what prose to keep and what to toss is subjective—at least until your readers read your published book, then subjection goes all out the window and into space-ace-ace-ace. Having an editor and perhaps a trusted and very-truthful-even-if-it-hurts friend/colleague is super important—for everyone, everyone, EV-ER-EE-1 (and I’ve learned this lesson the hard way).

But you have to listen and apply. After your beautiful perfect book has been ripped asunder, go to bed and yank the covers over your po’ wittle pea-head for an hour or two or twenty and then pull up your big boy undies and your big girl panties and suck it the hell up! There likely isn’t a one of us who hasn’t been scathed and burned and shredded by an editor and/or trusted colleague/friend. If you climb down off your high-horse, you can better see the piles of poo that need cleaning up so your horsey can freely gallop. And your manuscript will be the better for it. I done climbed (been bucked) off’n my high horse a time or two, by golly! And I’ve done some burning and scathing and shredding of other writers’ manuscripts. (I say this to my personal training client but it applies to the editor-writer relationship: hate me today; love me tomorrow!)

Have you ever watched deleted movie scenes and thought, “Glad they took that out!” Imagine if those deleted scenes were still there. We may think, “That’s really out-of-left-field/silly/doesn’t make sense/over the top/ boring/self-indulgent . . . .” (Sometimes Me thinks about some long movies, “Should’a cut some of this danged ol’ movie . . . ungh.”)

But because things can never be easy (insanity! Insanity! Insaaannity!) maybe a deleted scene is great and you may think, “Hey, that’s a cool scene; why’d they take it out?” Sigh.

But folks, really, no one notices the place the deleted scene(s) once occupied—and they have a reason for taking it/them out, right? Even if only because Big Movie Head says, “This thang is too long. Cut it or I stop paying the bills.” We moviegoers are unaware of all that work and cutting and drama—which is how it should be.

Here’s what happened with one of my novels that I’m most proud of (Sweetie): I’d given the manuscript to my editor the evening of my deadline and the very next morning I contacted her in a panic, retrieved that manuscript back from her, and immediately deleted 2 chapters up front, 2 chapters at the end, and rewrote a good portion of that manuscript at.the.very.last.moment. I shudder to think of what Sweetie would have been without my last minute deleting and reworking. And, really, I knew it before I sent it, but didn’t listen and apply my own instincts, until, of course, I did. I love that book and so did (do) many readers.

Be true to who you are but perhaps, she gently says, stop trying so hard to: show people what a Writer you are; that you can write like/better than so and so; step in the way of your characters because you, the author, has something to say or a rant/vent or a lesson to teach or whatever it is that is getting in the way of your characters being who they are. When you write what isn’t Yours, or write to please someone else (your mom, your partner, your readers, your publishers—yup tha’s what I said, your publishers—been there done did that—all those voices need to be out of your way) then the result when you type “the end” may be bloated and gassy—urp. Grab that sucker by the ankles and shake the ding-dang-dong out of it. Turn it inside out and upside down and sideways and thump it on the back. Give your manuscript some Gas-X, y’all! [Read more…]

Hey! Let’s All Celebrate The Madness

July 14, 2018 By Kathryn Magendie 18 Comments

Photo Credit: Steve Corey: Celebrate Life:)

I hear a lot of “what if” and “if only” and “If I could just” and “So and So has what I want!” I’m not immune to it, but I am growing ever more Aware of it. Circuitous thinking, round and round it goes, endless. We don’t remember wishing for that something because when we reached that goal, we were already circling to find the next thing, and that for which we wished for prior has already been left behind. I like goals; I’m competitive. But dang it! When do we celebrate? Where’s the WHAHOOO! . . . ?

Here’s what I imagined would happen when I received word that my first novel Tender Graces (and guess what? I never liked that title! ha! Now I said it! I wanted Mountain in the title; yeah, strong and mountain and kin. Like the Russian version they titled “Above the Mountain is Light” by Katherine Madzhendi, and there’s Mad in my Russianized name! haha! Er, where was I? oh yeah: here’s what I thought would happen when I received word my novel) would be published: I’d jump up, scream WHAHOOO!, hug anyone who happened to be around, email gamillions of people, yell N’YA N’YA N’YA N’YA N’YA I TOLD YOU SO! to those who said, “How’s that hobby, you know, that cute writing hobby you got going there? Still plugging along? *knowing looks abound* . . .” and then go celebrate with Ketel One over ice with a tiny sliver of lime.

Here is what really happened: I’m sitting alone in the dark. I’m sipping very strong black French Roast, the sun just slipping over the Smoky Mountains. I read the email of how the wonderful Bellebooks/Bell Bridge Books (Thank You, Bellebooks!) wants to offer me a contract. There is no sound but my old dog’s snoring. I stand, walk dazed around the little log house, and it is hours and hours later before I tell anyone—because I might jinx it. Because it may not be Real. Because something will happen to screw it up. Because they will publish me and five people will buy my book and they’ll regret they published me. And so on and so forth, blah diddity blah blah blah. Nothing new here, yammer yammer.

And in a blink of a flea’s eyelash WHOOOSH!, the first novel becomes the second, then third, and soon a novella, and fourth novel, and fifth. Have I done any real celebrating? I guess not. And I’ve let slip more than 4 years since that last novel, what with just over 4 years ago two incomes becomes All Me Income and writing feels more a luxury she can’t afford and she’s okay with that, sure she is; she doesn’t miss the long hours writing so she can instead work work work to pay her mortgage and bills; she had her moments of writing writing writing writing and writing WRITING WRITING WRITING WRITING, and now she must Not Writing. Oh Terrible Angst and Woe! Well, my sweet lil log house is, also, worth sacrificing something precious, even when it sucks to sacrifice. (But really, yes, it is rather sad, don’t you think? The lost books I still need to find? If I could catch my financial breath?) [Read more…]

Rhythms

June 9, 2018 By Kathryn Magendie 16 Comments

Photo Credit: Ryo
‘dance with butterflies’

There is a rhythm to the writing, as there is to the reading. The writer through the language places words, phrases, paragraphs onto the page, much as a musician composes music and then sends it out to the world for listeners to enjoy—except as the writer, we often do not recognize how we are creating poetry and music with a full beated heart. When I am writing, I am not aware of the rhythm. I am manipulating the language, but its rhythm comes from instinct, not from controlled purpose—that is how it works for me. How it works for you is your own. It is only now as I read over this draft that I wonder, “Is there a rhythm here? Can I manipulate it so there is one to make my post more effective?” But I only sit and contemplate that idea, knowing to ‘try’ or to ‘attempt’ this will only make me feel too aware and that too aware will kill the very thing I want to create. That is how I work.

When reading an author’s book, I am not at first aware of the cadence or lack of it; only when I’ve put the book down and reflect on my experience will the coordinating pulse become apparent. I am reading a novel now where, much as I want to, I cannot pace the beat. The author is well-known, and the story is one I want to read (and I will), but I am aware that something is not quite right: the rhythms are off, off, off. I stagger and stumble through the words, finding the beauty in this author’s ideas, but our dance is clumsy.

Similarly, a few months ago I began a novel and while reading the first two chapters, I had the urge to put the book down; something just wasn’t right between us. I felt awkward with my partner. But curiosity, and professional understanding and empathy for the hard work and the process, kept me reading to the third chapter, then the fourth, and along the way, I tapped into the rhythm of the writer’s words and began to enjoy the book in a way I cannot find with this current novel I’m reading. I thought, I’m so glad I didn’t put the book away or I’d have missed this waltz. I simply needed to fall in step with the writer: one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three….

My writer—and I love saying “my writer,” as if we have a bond, and we do—has no awareness of how in-tune we are to one another in the moments of my reading the author’s words. The author doesn’t know I am swaying in time, lifting up then setting down, dipping, rising, falling. The writer and I have never been closer and I wish I could turn my head, look up into that expectant face, and say, “Your words have affected me, moved me, made me laugh, entertained me, made me think. I … I love you.” [Read more…]

Mars: Right Outside the Goldilocks Zone

May 12, 2018 By Kathryn Magendie 13 Comments

Image credit: Andrew Caw –
Solar System (artist’s impression)

Mars is the closest thing there is to Earth (not just in distance) and scientists believe it could support life, just not Life as We Know it On Earth.

Earth is in the “Goldilocks Zone,” while Mars is on the fringe of it. That’s the “just right” area in our solar system not only to support life, but life so lush and varied that it boggles the mind how we became who we are and what we are—Random Acts of Nature. Random is comforting to me, inspires discovery and thought, and actually has organization or it becomes Complete Chaos. Many times what seems to be Complete Chaos is really organized splendor. Nature never gives up—always changing, always moving. Adapting to its environment, sometimes beautifully and sometimes dangerously and sometimes disastrously but always marvelously.

Mars is smaller than Earth but has two moons, which makes it nice to visit, because I like moons. Though, it’s often difficult to see the moons because of the howling wind dust storms kicking up, some of which last a month long. The sunset tinges the sky blue. Blue sunsets on a red planet—real stuff! It snows on Mars, too. Though there may be snows we are familiar with, carbon-dioxide snow also falls there, so it’d be like a dry-ice snow; ain’t gonna build a snowman with that. With all the wonders of the universe to fuel our imaginations, we could do anything we wanted in our writing, as long as we convince our audience that it is really truly Truly Real whether it is real or not real or maybe is or maybe not—blue sunsets, dry-ice snow, purple skin, wolves with wings, clouds that rain diamonds (actually, liquid diamonds fall on Neptune and Uranus, but that’s for another day).

From space, Mars is beautiful. Standing on Mars, well, it’s a bit rough. The red of The Red Planet is from so much iron in the soil. And it’s cold. 80 degrees below zero. And dang it, I forgot my coat on Pluto. Oh well! When you are by yourself a lot, you don’t have anyone to remind you to grab your coat, or to make sure your shirt isn’t on inside out, or fix the tag that’s sticking up in the back, or acknowledge your existence when you return to Earth from Mars. There’s no one to say: “Why aren’t you writing?—if you write another book, I bet it’ll be a best seller! I know you’ll make a lot of money! Never give up on your dreams! Writers write, right? You can do it! I believe in you! Are you okay?” Actually, those things are meant to encourage and support but strangely you often find they make you anxious and you feel cornered and stressed and pressured and want to tell them to stop it and you know to think this way feels Just Wrong but there you go thinking it.

But! There’s no one to see how your royalty checks have shrunk, and then tell you, “Hey! That’s okay! Write that next book! I know that one will make you a zillionaire!” I like how I can open that envelope all by myself and shrug and say, “Welp, at least I get a royalty check! I have written books; I have books out there published—no one can take that away from me, not even me. And I’ll do it again when I’m good and damned ready to. Now, I’ll take this check and think about how lucky I am, while I still get one *skips off zippity do dah day*.”

On Mars there are canyons, volcanoes, craters. Clouds, fog, wind. Tornados. There’s gravity—one-third less than Earth has. If you dropped a cup of coffee on Mars, it would fall slower than if you dropped that cup of coffee on Earth; maybe you have time to grab it before it ka-splats, but then I suppose everything would move slower, including you. Might take you fifty-galleven times longer to write that novel, moving so sloooooo…oooo…ooooow. [Read more…]

The Disappointing Novel: The Shame of it All

April 14, 2018 By Kathryn Magendie

Photo by: BRICK 101-Lego Godzilla, Creative Commons

SHām, noun, 1. “… a painful feeling of humiliation or distress caused by the consciousness of wrong or foolish behavior….” Synonyms: humiliation, mortification, chagrin, ignominy, embarrassment, indignity, discomfort ….

When you write the Disappointing Novel—the one that makes you cringe when you think about its missed opportunities—you experience a feeling of deep failure.

Failure really isn’t so bad. It comes. It goes. It comes and goes.

But, oh, then there is Shame.

Shame permeates your marrow. Shame makes something wonderful you once had go dead inside. Shame pummels your heart squishy, gnaws at your bones as if you are the carrion to its flesh-eaters.

Shame twists your brain into knot upon knot upon knot—

Shame that you wrote a book full of missed opportunities. Shame that you handed that book to your editor. Shame that your publishers accepted it, just as it was, because they had faith in you. Shame that it was published, just as it was, because they had faith in you. Shame that it didn’t sell like a house-a-fire after your publishers said, “This book will be your next best seller!” and it ain’t and likely never’t wilt be because you didn’t write it right. You wrote it wrong. Oops.

“Oh, the book this could have been, if I ….” You shake your head sloooowwly back and forth. Tsk Tsk.

Then there is the well-intentioned friend who serves you Shame on a burnt-black platter. “This book doesn’t have the heart and soul of your other books. What happened? And what’s up with those sex scenes? They’re weird.” Um, those sex scenes are RAGE RAGE RAGE! All the corners of that book are FIRE and RAGE. Don’t you also see the beauty buried in the RAGE? Don’t you see it?

No. Of course she didn’t see it. You didn’t do your job. You didn’t write it right. You wrote it wrong.

You are ashamed that RAGE took over your life and Godzilla-stomped it to smithereens and made your brain go all wonkity where you couldn’t even write a goddamned book right and you wrote it wrong.

You lovingly pick up your other books and smooth the covers with your gentle sweet hand. But with the Disappointing Missed Opportunities Book, you often pretend it’s not there. “What? That book?” you say. “Oh, that’s my Rage Book. Yeah. That’s the book I wrote when I Godzilla-stomped through my life. That’s the book I wrote when I decided to end my 16-year marriage. That’s the book I wrote when I began drinking too much liquor and eating crap for food. That’s the book I wrote when I isolated myself inside myself. That’s the book where I almost lost the last bit of my Self. Yeah. That book. Whatevs. I didn’t write it right. I wrote it wrong. Dammit.”

The missed opportunities of the poor little disappointing novel rise up and swallow you whole. And in the dark gooshy belly of that great beast you wallow around until you create enough friction to blow fiery breaths of disappointing novel RAGE! Until all that is left under the rubble is— [Read more…]

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