Artist Trading Cards, New Phone, and Other Random Stuff

I've been working on multiple projects at once, plus dealing with 3 kids by myself this past week. Hubby was in New Jersey on a business trip, so there was definitely no rest for the mommy-minded! I ended up doing most of my writing and art after the kids were put to bed, about 8 PM. So I'll throw in a load of laundry or stack the dishes in the dishwasher and try to have a few minutes of peace.

Time's been in short supply, so I've been doing quick sketches. I'm working on a series of Artist Trading Cards (ATCs, 2 inches by 3 inches. Think trade-able art cards, like baseball cards) connected with Chinese New Year. Chun Lian are New Year's couplets, traditionally written on horizontal (or vertical) strips of paper and affixed to your door frame. Usually, it's a quote about the coming spring or a saying from the Chinese classical scholars, like Lao Tzu or Confucius.

My phone's been on the fritz lately, so I've had to get a new one. The old one kept dropping calls, and after my son's teacher tried to contact me (and I finally got her message on the home phone), I told Hubs when he got back that I can't afford to have a bum phone. So I got a new one...spent a while transferring my important phone numbers into it, but as long as I can actually receive my calls, it's worth it.

Still working on my creative website, and I'm planning on adding PDFs of some of my writing and some podcasts (connected with this blog and Phoenix Fire Arts). Slow going, but it'll get there.

So there's no rest for the Creative Mommy, never mind the wicked.



All original writing and art copyright A. Dameron 2000-2011

Quotes from "The Art of Writing", Part I, "Process"

I dug out one of my favorite Chinese classics: The Art of Writing: Teachings of the Chinese Masters, translated by Tony Barnstone and Chou Ping. Here are some quotes about the writing process:


From: "The Art of Writing" by Lu Ji (Taoist poet, 261-303 CE)


Chapter 3: "Process"


Search for the words and sphere of thought,
then seek the proper order;
release their shining forms
and tap images to hear how they sing.
Now leaves grow along a branching thought.
Now trace a current to its source.
Bring the hidden into light
or to form the complex from simplicity.
Animals shake at the tiger's changing pattern
and birds ripple off when a dragon is seen;
some words belong together
and others don't join, like ragged teeth, 
but when you're clear and calm
your spirit finds true words.
With heaven and earth contained in your head,
nothing escapes the pen in your hand.
It's hard to get started at first,
painful like talking with cracked lips,
but words will flow with ink in the end.
Essence holds content as the trunk lifts the tree;
language is patterned into branches, leaves and fruit.
Now words and content match
like the mood on your face---
smile when you're happy
or sigh when your heart hurts.
Sometimes you can improvise easily.
Sometimes you can only bite the brush and think.

All original writing and art copyright A. Dameron 2000-2010

A Slice of Life of a Mummy Writer

This was my "writing morning" this morning:

7 AM: Kids are up, Wiggles are on, coffee's in the pot. Son powers up my laptop (good boy!). Breakfast for all.

7:15 Daughter has meltdown, need to calm her. Son cuts power to laptop, must reboot.

7:30 Finally check E-mail Older daughter decides she doesn't need diaper...putting diaper on moving target very challenging.

7:45 Reboot computer. Again.

8:00 Pinky Dinky Doo on Nick Jr. Son decides he wants to put DVD on, turns it on, his sisters howl in protest. Must settle argument. Son sulks because he doesn't get to do what he wants to do. Decides to throw tantrum. Time-out in room.

8:30 Jack's Big Music Show on Nick Jr. Again, replay of incident at 8 AM. Sorted out halfway through the program.

8:45 Look over friend's draft, make notes about revision. Look over other writing, makes notes on round-robin chapter.

9:30 Kids playing quietly, I run a load of laundry, and write. Find Baby Girl's blocks the hard way by stepping on them. Implement clean-up.

9:45 Son wants to get out. Dress kids, shoes. Takes much longer than it should..

10:05 Load kids in car. Also takes much longer than it should.

10:25 Arrive at Northlake Mall. Kids play in the playplace. Get a couple of chocolate chip cookies in honor of National Chocolate Chip Day.

11:30 Find out Charlotte DOT is repaving usual way home. Must take long way around.

11:45 Lunch. Chicken sandwiches and tater tots. Check e-mail. Older daughter decides she wants Baby Girl's lunch instead. Chaos ensues

12:10 Afternoon Wiggles on. Manage to finish edit draft and send it.

And that was my morning. Right now, the kids are taking naps/quiet time so I can finally catch up on writing

So...how's your writing day been so far?

All writing and art copyright A. Dameron 2000-2010

Roadblocks to Writing and How To Bust Through Them

Today, I'm stuck in a bit of a rut where writing's concerns. It's hard to find the motivation to get anything done, especially when my health has gone wonky, the weather's yucky, and the kids are acting nutty. One way to bust through the blocks is the list all the excuses you've got for not writing and counter them.


Here are mine for today:


1) My hands hurt like anything. My muscles ache and I just feel blah.


Okay, five minutes. Just five minutes about anything, even if it's just to complain about how bad you feel. It'll make you feel better.


2) The weather's yucky.


Writing doesn't care if the weather's yucky or sunny.


3) The kids are acting nutty.


Act nutty with them. They might inspire you to write something...when they get to their naps.


4) Laptop's throwing a fit.


Use the upstairs desktop. Or pen and paper.


5) Internet's down. Can't do any research.


Go to the library. Look up notes the old fashioned way. Take notes. That's a form of writing.


6) I feel like doing art.


OK, do art, then come back to the writing. Or even better, combine art and writing.


7) Hubby's complaining that I don't spent enough time with him.


Spend time with him. Then write. (In my case, Hubs' definition of "spending time together" consists of him watching reruns and me just being in the room. In that case, I use that time to write.)


8) I'm too tired.


Take a nap. Or two. Or three.  Then write.


The list varies day by day, but somehow, I try to write despite all the blocks. It's not easy, and sometimes I'm not very successful. The times I am successful are steps toward my writing goal...which seems closer and closer. What are some roadblocks that stand between you and writing?

All writing and art copyright A. Dameron 2000-2010

Original Flash Fiction: A Walk on the Beach

Flash Fiction= less than 100 words

A Walk on the Beach.

The gray skies of dawn, the cool crisp smell of seafoam and brine. The breeze whipped the ocean like cotton candy. I blinked in the cloudy haze and tried to get my bearings. Yes, the bridge is this way. I stepped onto the cool sand, my bare feet sinking into the wetness. My toes shivered, but as I made my way to the shoreline, they stopped trembling.

I pulled the hood of my windbreaker more securely over my head as the goosebumps popped on my flesh.

All writing and art copyright A. Dameron 2000-2010

What am I Reading This Month?

I never read just one book at a time. There are piles of books at my bedside, on the kitchen table, on the shelves...lots of books. My husband bought me a button that read, "I am a bookaholic. If you have any mercy, you will not sell me another book."


I think he was trying to tell me something. He always reads one book at a time.


If you want to write, you must read, read, read. Read about your interests, read all sorts of fiction, non-fiction, poetry...keep reading. Not only will it open your horizons, but different authors write in different styles. Every person has a unique viewpoint and a way of using words that comes from just that person. Find that style that shows who you are. If you copy another author's style, the result may be a good imitation of that author, but it isn't your voice.
What am I reading? This month, it's mostly professional and non-fiction. Languages and linguistics and writing books, but I'll also devour autobiographies and travel books. I proudly profess that I'm an armchair traveler, since I can't physically go to Provence, to Australia, or to Zimbabwe at the moment.


1) The Stuff of Thought: Language as a Window into Human Nature by Steven Pinker. This book analyzes our minds through the words we use every day. How do we string nouns, verbs, etc. together to form coherent thought? Language is based around certain core themes, like space and family. How do we construct these as kids? This book has a lot of linguistic technical jargon, so it isn't a casual summer novel that you can take to the beach.


2) Codebreaker by Stephen Pincock. A history of codes and ciphers, from the Egyptians to modern times. Luckily, not as complicated as Pinker's book, with plenty of illustrations and examples. There are many side stories about unbreakable(?) and ciphers that people are still working on. Try your hand at them.


3) Page after Page by Heather Sellers. I also have Seller's follow-up to this Chapter by Chapter. Writing can be a huge, overwhelming task, but if you break it up into tiny pieces, page after page, you can follow your writing dream.


4) The Irregulars: Roald Dahl and the British Spy Ring in Wartime Washington by Jennet Conant Yup, the same Roald Dahl who wrote James and the Giant Peach and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.  In 1942, he was an RAF pilot, assigned to the American Embassy in Washington DC after he was wounded in action. This is the story of how he and other British officers slipped into the social scene in DC, and at the same time, promoted British interests during World War II. An interesting look at British (counter)intelligence after Pearl Harbor.


5) Inside Inside by James Lipton. I love "Inside the Actors Studio" on Bravo channel. Lipton invited actors, directors and screenwriters for an hour of conversation on stage, in front of acting and directorial students of his New School. This is his autobiography, telling of his his own beginnings in the acting business, and how "Inside" came to be.


Plus two very special books I stumbled upon in the used bookstore. My closest friends know that I love collecting books dating before 1950. I have copies of Horatio Hornblower and Master and Commander dating from the early 20th century. These two are stamped as "Wartime Books", with first printings between the years of 1941-1945. They're both published by F.S. Crofts and Co. from New York.


6) Cartilla Militar: Companeros de Armas by Navascues and Sherman.(copyright 1944, first printing 1941) It's a book for students who have already had some Spanish grammar, and it covers vocabulary (and idioms) of the armed forces during World War Two. It goes into naval, air force, and army jargon. There's a whole chapter on aviation, ship operations, and even medical treatment of the time. Talk about learning Spanish through context.


7) An Introductory Portuguese Grammar by Edwin B. Williams (copyright 1944, first printing 1942). A grammar book on Portuguese as spoken in Portugal (with some notes on Brazilian Portuguese). Spanish and Portuguese may look similar, but they aren't alike. What's interesting about this book is that on the inside cover, there's faded writing identifying the original owner (I think). It's in colored pencil, but I can make out some words.  "Mr. (Dr?) K---- Stroujel(?) (8442), 4232  2nd PL N. Apt 4, Arlington, VA". I think.  Both this book and the Spanish Grammar one have copious notes written in the margins  and words underlined in red pen.


Both books a portal to the past. Other books are portals to the present and to the future.  READ THEM!

All writing and art copyright A. Dameron 2000-2010

Story Excerpt #3 from "Cantadora": Chapter 3: "Serena, the Devoted One"

Chapter 3: Serena

The Devoted One

The Temple of the Sun Lady towered over the other buildings of Santo Tomas, white stone and polished marble with gold gilding above the doors. Devotees entered through the main gallery and were greeted by a statue of Santo Tomas. His outstretched hand pointed them towards the main Altar, draped in white silk and decorated with fresh flowers. The Altar was surrounded by the smaller Elemental Shrines. Santo Tomas’s was Fire, the fire of passion, of creativity and of healing. The Water Elemental was represented by the Lobos River, that flowed through the town. Air was the summer breezes that swept through the valley, and earth was the food brought out of its depths. The shrines fairly bulged with offerings; gifts of sea salt, candles, incense and holy soil multiplied as the morning went on.


A Cloister Sister lit the braziers of spicy incense. Another Sister rang the bells, and a third played on a wooden flute. Two drummers sat cross-legged on either side of the marble altar, their steady beat heard even above the noise of the crowd.


Most of the people enjoyed the gathering, yet some of Santo Tomas's elite preferred their own solitary devotions. Doña Serena Ferro-Rasquez knelt in front of the Sun Lady's private altar. Serena, as the wife of Santo Tomas' vice-mayor, insisted on a quieter worship.
The niche was cut into the red adobe walls, then sanded smooth and gilded with sheets of thin gold. Vases of fresh flowers adorned it, interspersed with votive candles and vials of holy water. At the center of the altar was a painting of the Lady of the Sun and her twin, the Lady of Darkness. The Righteous was clothed in brilliant garments that matched Her porcelain skin and girdle. The Terrible wore robes of black and red, her dark eyes smoldered with hate, her lips painted in ruby gloss.


Serena touched the small statue of the Sun Lady, then the smaller figure of Santo Tomas, Her faithful servant. The Blessed Man wore the homespun clothes of a simple trader, and thus was the town’s guardian.


A shadow floated at the corner of her eye. At first, she thought it was merely another penitent, but it was dressed in dark clothing, and not the bright colors of the townspeople. She turned around, but no one was there, save for the worshipers in the wooden pews, deep in their own devotions. There was Senhor Claudio the baker with his brood in the front pew, then Senhora Trupi with her perfumed hair and voluminous skirts. Serena frowned in disapproval; Trupi was a hypocrite, but the High Priestess still allowed her to pray at the altar.


Poor Trupi. May she find her enlightenment, as well as all those who walk the crooked path in the Shadows. The Sun Lady offered forgiveness for all, but some required more penitence than others. Serena’s mouth quirked as she thought about the High Priestess herself. How many secrets lay buried within the Sun Lady’s Servant? After five years of spying, Serena still had no idea, and that worried her.


Serena continued her prayers with a new fervor. Her chant rose and fell in cadence. "Lady of Light, protect my house and all who dwell within it. Lady of Light, have mercy on those who still live in disbelief and bring them to you, someday--"


She paused, as she usually did, to pray for her brother and her sister-in-law. Poor, poor Reynaldo. How had he gotten involved with a family of sorcerers? He had been brought up within the Abbey, as Serena had been in the Cloisters, but Reynaldo never quite devoted himself as completely as was proper. Then the Brothers had discovered his skill in trade and negotiation, and he had been sent to the Traders' Circle. Serena still believed it had been the correct decision. Someone who did not believe in a cause should not be forced to pursue it.


At least Mother had the intelligence to realize that, Serena thought with a wry twist of her lips. Serena chose to remain in the Cloister and devote herself to prayer for her family. Elena Razquez approved of her decision; after all, what proper mother would want less for her daughter? The family needed all the heavenly support it could get.


Serena was content in the Cloister. Its simple, repetitive routine gave structure to her life. The Words provided her with comfort and joy. she felt more alive during her Devotions than at any other time of the day. It was as if the Sun Lady herself had granted her most secret wish: to enfold Serena into Her arms and protect her forever. She had been ready to take her vows as a Sister. Reynaldo understood her zeal, if not her intentions, and encouraged her. As Serena had found purpose within the Cloister, Reynaldo had found it with the Traders.


Then the impossible happened. Doña Elena, their mother, died suddenly from a brief, but devastating, illness. Don Bianco, their father, assumed complete control. He had never been particularly religious and did not comprehend his wife's--or his daughter's--religious fervor.


"You will listen to me," he told her on the day he dragged her from the Cloister. "It is time you lived in the real world, not a world of mystical nonsense."


Before she knew it, she was married to Miguel Ferro, one of Don Bianco's dearest friends, and a rising political figure in the town. Miguel was not unkind, but he was not loving, either. Reynaldo found out about the wedding after the fact--by that time, he had married Magdalena Sampara, the town weaver. Reynaldo had chosen Magda of his free will. Serena was furious at her brother for defying all they had been taught, and listening to his heart.


That, and having the courage to do so. Serena laughed silently. The courage I lacked in the name of following my elder, like a traditional daughter should. Not everyone heeds the traditional Call. Her various spies had reported the arrival of Lady Isabel, the Senior Healer of the Southern Circle, and Isabel was sure to visit her cousin, Magdalena.


The Healers. A bunch of stiff-necked vultures who would have died out long ago, had she not intervened. A wry smile tugged at her lips at the memory.


She came to the end of her formal prayers. then she raised her eyes to the twin images on the altar. Her mind groped for the words to say; she was never good at speaking from the barriers within her heart.


"Lady of the Sun, I come to you in great need. I wish your guidance. I ask for your mercy on the child. I fear for it, Lady, with Isabel as godmother. Mystical talent runs in that family, and I sense dark power within Magda's womb."


Serena stole a furtive glance at the Lady of Darkness. Was it her imagination, or did lightning flash within the cobalt eyes? The flames of the candles flared once, as if in agreement. Serena felt a surge of self-righteous indignation. If it had been her child, she would send the little one to the Cloister and the Curandera. They knew how to handle those born with the potential of wild, uncontrollable Talents. Serena wished for a chance to do so--perhaps there might still be a way.


She linked her hands around her prayer stones and raised them, straightening her back and gazing deep within the Sun Lady's eyes. Tears streaked down her cheeks. "I implore you, as a humble supplicant, to give me the courage to defy the grand plans of my brother and his wife, for the child's sake. I followed my father's will as meekly as a lamb and discovered how much of a coward I really was. It pulled me off the path to You and now I must rediscover my way. Speak to me Your will; tell me, show me what I must do. For my salvation, and the family's, please guide me."


The stones grew warm within her hands. Again, her gaze strayed to the Lady of Darkness. No, she thought fiercely,I will not let You destroy my family, not this time. Your curse will stop here and now. You took my mother in death and my brother in disbelief. I will not stand idle any longer.


But the gaze held her in its thrall. Serena's arms trembled, then sank back to her sides. The voice was as sweet as precious sugar, just as rich, and full of warm love, just as she imagined it would.


My daughter, I will never leave. I will give you the aid you so richly deserve. Never fear for the souls of your beloved niece or of your brother. I will save them. I reward deep devotion such as yours, especially after the trials you have been through. You deserve such reward.


The Lady had answered her prayer. But why was she so frightened? Had she made a mistake? Had she--? Serena tried to sob, but her vocal cords were paralyzed and the Lady spoke to her again.


Listen now, My daughter, and I will tell you what to do. My will to yours, My heart to yours. Do you fear Me?


"Yes, but I don’t know why. I have never been afraid of You—“


I will never lead you astray, you know that. Will you trust Me?


Serena's mouth moved of its own accord. "Yes."


Will you follow Me?


“Yes. Yes, of course.”


Good. Very good.


Serena knelt in front of the Lady's altar and listened attentively. She never noticed that she was staring at the Lady of Darkness, not at the Sun Lady, as she had thought. The painting's rosy lips curled into a slight, slight smile.



When she came back to herself, the Lady’s voice had died down to a mere whisper in her mind, but she still felt Her love and guidance. Serena stood up from the kneeler with renewed determination. She would save her brother’s child and the rest of Santo Tomas from the darkness. The Lady had told her how to do so, but she needed time to prepare.


Serena quickly left the Sanctuary, drawing her veil over her face as a proper noblewoman did in public. Despite her veil, most of the townspeople recognized her and asked for her blessing. She smiled and laid her hands on theirs and spoke the traditional words: “May the Sun Lady herself bless your house and those who live within it.” A warm current spread out from her fingers and seeped into the skin of the petitioner.


She hurried into the courtyard of her husband’s house, giving a nod to the servants bustling about the estate. Serena climbed a set of polished granite steps to the main audience chamber, where the festa was being held.


She circled the banquet hall, adjusting a setting here, pinning a drape there. Her expert eye found many flaws in the servants' costumes. Serena admonished them with quiet words as she corrected them. "Everything must be perfect for the banquet," she said. "We must display Santo Tomas in all its glory."


None of the servants noticed the slight electric thrill of her touch and they went about their assigned tasks. The tingle buried its way into the ceramic plates, the silver wine goblets and the table settings. It wormed into the cakes and vegetables, the fruit and roast beef, all without the cooks' knowledge.


Serena knew. A part of her cried out in dread and terror, but it never reached her ears. The Lady had promised their deliverance; She would do so. She had heard the prayers and answer them in Her own way; Serena was only an instrument of Her mercy.


Mercy or wrath? Then the words skittered across her mind and were lost in the numbing ether.


"A beautiful room, Carissima," boomed Don Miguel Ferro. The vice-mayor of Santo Tomas surveyed the festival hall and beamed with pride. His balding head reflected the sunight, and the gray mustache quivered in genuine delight. He wore an orange festival shirt embroidered in gold and silver thread, and pants hemmed in the same fashion. The red sash emphasized Miguel’s considerable girth.


Magda’s quiet joke, when she designed it for him. She always had a sense of dark humor under the graciousness.The thought of Magdalena worried her for a brief moment, but then, it too was gone.


"Te de Gracio, my dear," Serena answered with her most disarming smile. Miguel straightened and extended his hand to his wife. The tingle crawled up her fingers and buried itself into Miguel’s blood. Her husband didn’t notice as she brought her to the door to greet their adoring guests.


Forward to Chapter Four
Back to Chapter Two


excerpt from "Cantadora" by A. Dameron 2011. All rights reserved.tadora" by A. Dameron 2010. All rights reserved.

Trying to cram writing in between...

...keeping my girls out of trouble, resizing art, RP'ing on Twitter, and cleaning the house. Not to mention hubby was home today to fix his car. So yeah, it was real life 1, writing...maybe a .5


And no, I wasn't trying to procrastinate on anything. Much. That's why I leave my laptop on most of the time...if I get 5 minutes to scribble/type/jot down a few words, that counts on the effort. On the word count...okay, maybe in the long run. It doesn't look like much right now. They say a page a day is 365/366 pages a year, which is novel-sized. Yeah.


I found a collection of stories that I wrote when I was 12 years old and in my Thunderbirds/anime/manga phase. I read through it and I was like AAAGH! Gimme a break. I was 12. Still. One of these days I ought to share some of those awful passages under "teenage writing angst".


Hopefully, I'll have more time this weekend.


Annie