A Christmas Story... Feeling Needed

 

It was early in the morning, three days before Christmas. I was in bed with my eyes closed, struggling to decide if my latest dream was less or more reality. I had retired to bed late the previous night, having stayed up to wrap gifts and watch It’s a Wonderful Life all by my lonesome while the rest of the house snored peacefully in the background. I had wept emotionally over George’s realization that the world was a better place with him alive. Then I’d turned off the TV and gone to bed.

Years ago when my children were young, viewing this holiday classic had been an annual tradition. But ever since my four darlings had entered puberty, they’d unanimously agreed it was more torture than treat to watch a black-and-white rerun of some crazy, old, dead guy……no matter how many tears it cost their mother. My husband had sided with the majority—a little too eagerly—so I now upheld the holiday ritual alone.

Still in bed, I opened my eyes and stared up at a ceiling that resembled muddy tapioca. The grogginess had lifted enough for me to realize I’d been dreaming, but the impact I felt from those realistic visions bothered me. Sometime in the night I’d assimilated George Baily’s experience into my subconscious, and I’d become a ghost in my own home, invisible to my husband and four children. I was painfully aware of them but unable to interact with anyone. Though I stood directly in their path, they were entirely oblivious of me.

The worst part wasn’t my sudden ghostliness. Nor was it the fact that I couldn’t communicate with the ones I loved. What weighed heavy on my heart in the dream—and now while awake—was the fact that my family didn’t appear the least bit troubled by my absence. No one had stopped for even a second to question where I was, to call out my name or expend the slightest amount of effort searching the house for me. They simply went on with their daily routines, engrossed in whatever selfish activities each had planned for the day.

No one missed me. It was disheartening.

The fact that my entire family had opted out of movie night the evening prior only made my condition graver. I may as well have been a real ghost for as little as I was wanted. In truth, every other soul in the house was capable of taking care of him or herself; my family could go right on functioning without me.

My goal as a parent had always been to teach each child to be self-sufficient and independent, so I had succeeded. That was good! But I felt miserable nonetheless.

Pulling the covers over my head, I curled up into a ball and fell back asleep, depressed and envious of the fact that Bedford Falls had fallen apart without George Baily.

I was jolted awake—startled upright. A glance at the clock showed I’d overslept by a couple hours. Five unsmiling faces surrounded my bed, all focused on me. I realized it was my youngest daughter squawking, “Moth—er!” that had awakened me. The silence accompanying four tight stares only lasted long enough for me to wipe at the mascara I imagined was smeared beneath my eyes.

“What are you all…?” I started, only to be drowned out by sibling teens talking at once.

“Mother, I need a ride to Joslin’s house—stupid ‘Big Foot’ won’t take me.”

“Because I can’t, Bratilda. I told you, I’m scheduled to work…”

“So drop me off first….Mother, tell him!”

“Mom, I’m short on cash, and I need gas money…”

“No, no, no way! He hasn’t done one chore around here; I’ve been doing everything!”

“Forget them—I really need some money, Mom. We’re Christmas shopping at the mall…”

“Hey, Ma, did you get my red sweater washed? You said you’d have it ready for my concert tonight…”

“Mom, please tell me you are not going to make me go to his dork concert tonight! I have that Christmas cookie exchange—you said you’d help me make sugar cookies today…”

Just then, my husband squeezed his head in. “Hunny? Have you seen my car keys anywhere?”

If in reality I were to wake up and find myself a ghost, this beautiful family of mine would probably find a way to function. But my dream had been wrong. My family needed me, even if I was slightly taken for granted. The truth felt radiant and clear—Bedford Falls was in chaos. Good old George Bailey’s wonderful life had nothing on mine.

Copyright 2017 Richelle E.Goodrich, Making Wishes

Isolation - A Poem

On a dreary, cold October while I watched the leaves descending,
twirling orange, red, and golden from the trees,
my frame of mind, it dourly echoed the depressing song of autumn,
for my life had turned as dull and dry as leaves.

I slipped on a woolen sweater, though a coat may have been better
to protect my skin from harsh and chilly winds.
It was not my first concern to contemplate external comfort
when my heart and soul were agonized within.

Nay, I don’t recall the day when joy began to fade to nothing,
turning every hour a somber shade of gray.
Drawn out weeks I spent alone while urgent business called you elsewhere,
keeping both your mind and body far at bay.

It was never my intention to reside apart from others,
but the woods’ enchanting mood had won our hearts.
I remember how romantic it had seemed to build a cottage
in the trees for you and me to make a start.

Nonetheless, when life demands it, love and fantasy erode
until the push to make a dollar turns to greed.
And so you spent more time without me, crafting deals and making money,
never meaning to neglect my greater needs.

Oh, it was a slow descent that over time brought me to madness.
Years before, my heart did love you evermore,
knowing hours away were only meant to ease our mortal burdens,
so with eagerness I’d meet you at the door.

Day by day you lingered longer in the caves of money changers.
Night by night your presence failed to warm my bed.
But oh! The times you did appear with pretty gifts and warm affections,
not one small complaint or griping word was said.

Perhaps that was my err. I should have voiced how dreadful lonely
and depressing isolation was for me.
So stale and stagnant fell my solitude that time and time again
I tried to coax intruding squirrels to sit for tea.

Sipping chamomile while nibbling almond crumpets, I would
hear a spotted owl that answered every noise with “who?”
And for weeks my desperation found the owl a fine companion
‘til I realized we were “whooing” out for you.

It was on this dark and starry night I first set out to wander
far beyond our property into the woods.
And despite the nippy weather, with a sweater wrapped around me,
I determined to hike on as best I could.

An enchanting moon shone luminous upon my virgin path,
highlighting every step into the yet unknown.
I traveled on with neither destination nor a goal in mind
except to walk the aching sorrow from my bones.

‘Midst the timbers I did travel, scrunching underbrush and mushrooms,
being careful of dead branches on my way.
Moss and pine assailed my nose while I was much opposed to stepping
foot in mucky piles of weather and decay.

It was in an open circle, very small but boasting daisies
and white asters growing wild among the grass,
well-illuminated also by a moon so full and glowing
it appeared to be a lid of giant mass.

Though the night was getting colder, it was like the sun had risen.
I absorbed a ray of warmth that wasn’t real.
Nonetheless, my skin behaved as if the hotness of the day
was being mirrored by the moon for me to feel.

With my face turned up to heaven, eyelids closed against the moonlight,
I stepped slowly to the circle’s very heart.
There my foot bumped into something far more supple than a boulder.
When I looked, the image gave my fright a start.

For a moment I stood frozen, hardly breathing in the evening,
hoping what my eyes beheld would cease to be.
But the body, white as ivory, lying still within the grasses
neither vanished nor attempted aught to flee.

Just a gasp at length I managed, for a scream seemed rather pointless
in the middle of the forest in the night.
With wide eyes I scanned the body, more than certain it was lifeless,
seeking evidence of how she’d met her plight.

A young woman, maybe twenty, seemed to sleep among the flowers,
blooms so white and wild around her pretty dress.
I could see no sign of mischief, not a wound or laceration.
By my scrutiny she seemed in no distress.

Then I noticed in her fingers lay a vial. It was empty.
I could picture how in life this troubled soul
had destroyed herself through poison in a bleak, crestfallen moment,
having nobody and nowhere else to go.

Oh alas! How bitter sorry I did feel for this sweet maiden,
empathizing with what mystery was her pain.
The enormity of anguish must have been an awful burden
to convince her every hour was lived in vain.

As I shed a tear or two, my fingers touched the cold cadaver
and the strangest shiver traveled up my spine.
At my back, I felt a chill that far surpassed the curious warmness
I’d encountered stepping through the ring of pines.

The impression of a presence made me glimpse across my shoulder
where I spied a being ethereal and fair.
The ghost was no illusion but a shadow of the maiden
lying at my feet, devoid of mortal cares.

For a brief eternal moment I believed my life in danger,
but that notion faded with a simple smile.
The young spirit kept her distance as she studied me in wonder,
lost in mutual contemplation for a while.

Then she spoke, her visage beaming, and she seemed a friendly specter,
overjoyed to come across a living soul.
And despite her eerie aura, I could honestly admit
her mere existence did my loneliness console.

“Speak your name,” said she in eagerness. I did without delay.
She told me hers, at which we shared a pensive sigh.
Placing both feet on the grass, she stepped beside me near her body.
Pointing to the vial, I softly uttered, “Why?”

In a dull and solemn murmur she replied, “What’s done is done.”
And then she turned away, refusing more to tell.
As her ghostly form moved off to wander weightless o’er the grasses,
my gaze lingered longer on her lifeless shell.

Then, as if she were a child, I heard her say, “Come play with me.
It’s been so very long since I have had a friend.”
I turned to find her two eyes hopeful, glowing near as white as starlight,
with a longingness my heart could apprehend.

I too was greatly hungering to make a new acquaintance,
craving personal companionship once more.
So I shed my woolen sweater, amply warmed by mystic moonlight,
to engage in dance and singing tales of lore.

In the morning I awakened ‘mid the mossy ring of pine trees
with my sweater draped across my shivering arms.
I had almost deemed the evening but a figment of my dreaming
when I spied the ashen corpse with some alarm.

Casting glances ‘bout the meadow where the air had felt like summer
up until a timely autumnal sunrise,
I was highly disappointed not to spot the pretty specter who
had capably my sorrows minimized.

Determining it wise to leave the body where it rested,
I stepped back into the trees to head for home.
Momentarily, I paused to scan the circle for a sign
that night had not elapsed with me out here alone.

Seeing nothing in the daylight, I moved off somewhat bewildered.
I could not erase the maiden from my mind.
It was crazy to feel grief o’er an imagined apparition,
yet I could not leave her memory behind.

Had I fantasized this friendly specter out of desperation?
Had the solitude and quiet made me mad?
Or, rather, had the most delightful night I’d spent in ages
been a pleasure for one living and one dead?

Wrestling sanity amid these thoughts, I drifted off in slumber,
waking just as sunset turned the sky maroon.
I pulled on my woolen sweater and ducked out into the forest,
keen to reach the meadow heated by the moon.

When I passed between the pine trees, smelling moss upon the branches,
I glanced everywhere with highest hopes indeed.
At the feel of drenching warmth my eyelids closed to face the moonlight.
Then I felt a shiver, followed by a plea.

“Please come play with me.” A soft request that covered me in goose bumps.
When my eyelids flickered open, I grinned wide.
“I would love to play,” I answered to the same incorporeal being
whose mortality had ceased in suicide.

I scarcely can express the great relief I felt to know
I wasn’t half as mad as I had first assumed.
And throughout the moonlit evening we did laugh instead of grieving.
In my heart a bud of optimism bloomed.

Daylight hours I used for sleeping while each precious night I rushed
To find my ghostly sister waiting patiently.
The moon above remained a nightlight warming up our magic circle
where the wild asters grew tenaciously.

One wet and drizzly afternoon while fast asleep in bed
I felt a large and gentle hand against my cheek.
My mattress shifted at the weight of someone sizeable and heavy,
and I heard a man inquire if I was weak.

“You look pale, my dearest. Are you ill? Your skin’s in need of sun.”
I felt big fingers cup my face as I awoke.
And for a moment it was if I had an onset of amnesia
‘til I recognized my husband, and I spoke.

“It is you!” I cried. “My darling, you’ve returned to me at last!”
He hugged me tight, and in his ear I breathed a sigh.
“How I’ve missed you!” “Oh, I’ve missed you too, but sadly I can’t stay.”
A cold remark to which I gravely uttered, “Why?”

“There’s important work to do, my love. Please try to understand.
It is our future for which business doth provide.
But I promise I shall not be long. One week and I’ll return.”
He smiled softly while my tears I blinked aside.

He then showered me in gifts, so I put on a glad expression
and accepted dainty trinkets and a ring.
I was grateful for the night we shared exchanging warm affections,
but by morning he was flittering his wings.

“Must you fly from me so soon?” I asked, already feeling lonesome.
“You could sit a spell and share a pot of tea.”
With a hand upon my cheek he pacified me with a kiss.
“I’m sorry, dearest, but I’ll be home soon—you’ll see.”

Now, before I said goodbye I made him swear to backtrack quickly.
He assured me it was just a few more days.
“I’ll be standing on our doorstep by this very hour next weekend.
Hear my promise; I shall rush and not delay.”

Late that evening I revisited the moonlit grassy meadow.
There I found the ghostly maiden shedding tears.
Strands of haze were misted sorrow that fell o’er her empty body;
She was mourning loss of life, so it appeared.

I rushed over, arms outstretched as if to offer an embrace,
but when I reached the girl my hands dropped to my thighs.
A dismal exhale crossed my lips; my features twisted with compassion.
No one spoke until the mourner raised her eyes.

I was shocked when she proceeded to recount her day of death
by first confessing that a man had won her heart.
They had proved their love in secret when society forbade them,
though in open view they spent their time apart.

Months elapsed and turned to years while their love blossomed undiscovered,
yet they yearned for more than meetings in the dark.
But alas! The unforgiving world denied them any refuge.
To the afterlife they both vowed to embark.

It was here inside this same secluded circle they met up
to swear their love to one another evermore.
If the world refused a nuptial kiss for man and wife to wed,
the pitying angels would hold open heaven’s door.

Beneath a harvest moon they spent their last devoted hours,
resolute to make the final sacrifice.
Star-crossed lovers held up vials as they toasted their affections.
To their lips they put the poison and imbibed.

But that wasn’t true. Her sweetheart hesitated as she swallowed.
Not a drop of poison touched the craven’s tongue.
First confusion, then betrayal, lastly fear sunk in to haunt her
knowing there was no reversing what she’d done.

She collapsed and breathed her final dying breath among the daisies
while her living lover muttered deep regrets.
He scurried off, a single kiss upon her icy hand in parting--
wanton cowardice she never would forget.

She remained night after night beside her still and frigid body,
where the moon’s full eye had witnessed bitter woe.
And there she meant to haunt the woods until his passing made things right,
for she had nobody and nowhere else to go.

A well of tears I shed at hearing her disastrous tale of heartbreak,
and upon its end she questioned where I’d been.
Disappointing her the prior night had caused a valid worry
that, just like her love, I’d ne’er return again.

I apologized and then began the tale of my own sorrows,
how essentially I lived each day forlorn.
Though I loved my husband dearly and I longed to have him near,
his frequent travels meant he scarcely stayed at home.

We connected much like sisters and divulged a wealth of secrets.
In our misery, we howled up at the moon.
For the first time in my life I felt both understood and pitied.
It was hard to part when morning came so soon.

Daylight hours I slept away until the moon became my sunshine.
After dusk, I basked in treasured company,
until one windy autumn night a whispered wish disturbed my thoughts;
my ghostly sister bid eternity with me.

She said there was yet another vial of poison, left untouched.
Her fleeing lover had abandoned it in haste.
She suggested that if someone sought to reach the world beyond
the vial’s contents would require but a taste.

I’ll admit at first the notion was distressing to my mind.
“I have a husband and a home and seeds to sow!”
My spirit sister forced a smile. “And so you shall….at least a while.
Though eventually all treasures we forgo.”

I understood her subtle meaning: now or later ends the same.
But giving up my now seemed wasteful and unwise.
“You forget what you’d be gaining—an eternity together.
What you’d lose are lonely days that you despise.”

At the leading rays of sunrise, I proceeded toward my home.
It was impossible to sleep a wink that day.
Call it madness. Call it reason from an otherworld perspective.
The allure to join my friend had taken sway.

She was there for me. A ghost! Not now and then but every evening.
While the flesh-and-blood I’d married, he was gone.
Though he’d promised one week prior to return at dawning light,
my sole companion was an owl the whole day long.

Pulled apart by clashing wants, I chose to stay the night at home
and pray my husband would arrive before the dew.
I yearned to speak to him of love and verify his heart’s desire,
but the only voice I heard kept crying, “Who!”

So I contemplated hour by hour that one repeated word,
and in the morning I continued wide awake.
As the owl and I “whooed” out for you, my tears turned to a river.
And the sun, he traveled slowly for my sake.

And I waited.
Oh, I waited! ‘til the sky turned red with envy!
But you didn’t come to beg me stay with you.
Hence, my darling, where one lay now there are two.

Copyright 2017 Richelle E. Goodrich

The Month of May —The Month of Me

I was thinking back over the past few months, savoring a sweet mix of relief, joy, and fulfillment at having finally published an entire young adult series. On April 26th, the last book in my Harrowbethian Saga was released. Not only did I write and edit this entire six-book adventure, I illustrated the covers and self-published the crazy story. It was more than I initially set out to do. Now that it's finished, I can hardly stop gazing at the completed saga sitting on my bookshelf. Who knew I had it in me to do something this big? 

Honestly, if you had suggested that I attempt such a feat when I first set out to write a single book, I would have crinkled my nose and thought you were signing me up for a climbing hike where the goal was to reach the end of a rainbow. Yet here I am, basking under the colorful lights where an illusive rainbow has touched ground in my life. An enormous sense of satisfaction comes from accomplishing something so challenging. This truth got me thinking today.

There are other things I would love to accomplish. There are personal attributes I would like to improve upon, goals I long to finally reach, and certain wishes I hope to someday see come true. Most of these goals involve only me, my dreams. I have set them aside numerous times for the sake of priorities. They call this sort of patient procrastination a form of selflessness. They call it being mature and responsible. I don't regret the sacrifices I have made for the benefit of worthwhile people and causes, but I am growing older and feel my determination increasing with age. With my boys reaching adulthood, I find I have greater amounts of time to myself—as well as less time left on this planet—which makes me think that now is when I can and should invest in my own dreams. 

Silly thing—I was thinking about how tomorrow is the month of May, a new month, a new beginning, another stretch of springtime where many things are born and blossoming and sprouting from seed. I had the thought that this should be my month to concentrate on improving certain attributes about myself. Things I want to improve. It should be the month of me. Yes, a month all about me. Not in a selfish, irresponsible, ignore-the-needs-of-others sort of way, but in a growing, developing, mending, and moving-closer-in-line-with-the-person-I-visualize-myself-to-be sort of way. It is possible and it is productive to concentrate on yourself unselfishly—as paradoxical as it sounds. 


So this is my goal. The month of May will be the month of Me. I expect great things from myself. The way I see it, any lady who can write an entire six-book, young adult series must have some magic and muchness in her. Wish me luck. I have things to do.

Author Podcast Interview

     I'm excited to announce I was interviewed by the lovely Vikki J. Carter on her author podcast. It was a pleasure to visit with her and talk about the different aspects of writing, editing, and publishing. Listen to Authors of the Pacific Northwest this month and catch the interviews of many interesting authors. Listen for mine on February 25th! I'll be reading from my written works at the end of the interview. Hopefully, I don't sound as nervous on the air as I felt.

Looking Back

   Six years ago, I published my first book. I'll admit, holding that smooth paperback copy in my hands, thumbing through the printed pages, was a thrilling experience. I could hardly keep from smiling knowing that every word comprised my own original story. 

     At that same time, I introduced myself on social media. I felt a burst of excitement with every new follower, and I learned to appreciate the slow and steady increase in book sales and internet posts and interviews and every other small event that helped me as a poet and novelist.  

Sometimes it is fun to look back and see how far you've come. Today, on the brink of a new year, it seems like the perfect time for such personal reflection. So here goes.

Six years ago, 40 people "liked" my most popular book quote on Goodreads. Two years ago that number reached 237 "likes." Today, my most popular book quote on Goodreads has 310 "likes."

Six years ago, 8 people considered my writing good enough to call themselves a fan or follower on Goodreads. Two years ago, the number reached 149. Today, 206 people follow me on Goodreads.

Six years ago, I started out with 3 followers on Twitter. Two years ago, that number increased to 887. Today, 1849 people follow me on Twitter.

Other accomplishments include 13,552 visits people have made to my author website, 441 followers on my Facebook author page, 397 followers on my Instagram page, and 122 followers on my Tumblr page. 

From that first book published in April of 2012, nine others have followed. 

I am grateful to all who have supported me as a poet and author. Thank you for purchasing my books. Thank you for leaving kind comments and reviews at Amazon, Goodreads, and other sites where books are sold. Thank you for telling your friends and acquaintences about my works. 

2019 promises to be a good year for writing. Slowly but steadily, I am moving closer to my goal of finding real success as a poet and novelist. Sometimes it is consoling to look back and clearly see that.

Happy New Year, all!


You can follow me on the following social sites:

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LinkedIn - https://www.linkedin.com/in/regoodrich/

Tumblr - http://regoodrich.tumblr.com/

Google+ - https://plus.google.com/u/0/105426719345785938668

Goodreads Profile - https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5082833.Richelle_E_Goodrich

Amazon Author Page - https://www.amazon.com/Richelle-E.-Goodrich/e/B008A6A5W4/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_hsch_vu00_tkin_p1_i9

I Love Poetry

Why do I love poetry? For many reasons. Because poetry is artistic. Because poems have intrinsic beauty. Because they are a creative means of expression. I love poetry because of the way it manipulates my emotions, much the way music and sunsets and thoughtful gestures do. I write poetry, hoping to convey to the reader what I feel, what I love, what I struggle with, what I hope for. At different times, I appreciate certain poems more than others. If you asked me what my favorite poem was today, it would be the following. It is one I wrote from the perspective of an outsider.​

---

          “I want to hear her laugh.
           To watch sunbeams awaken her visage and shine through her eyes. To see the gray clouds of regret that hang heavy over her head rain away to nothing.
           I want to hear her sunny voice dance on the breeze, as light and free as glossy bubbles, floating up…up…up to pop like hiccups. I want to know the type and form of key I must cut to unshackle even a portion of her joy.
           If I could pluck the winning feather; if my smile could convince; if I could stroke her vocal chords like harp strings and make each treble note ascend to euphoria. Oh, to hear the giggled melody she would release into a world craving the balm of mirth!
           I ache to experience that. I am desperate for it.
           I live for the day I hear her laugh.”

Copyright 2018 Richelle E. Goodrich 

Five P's for Positive Progress

     At the close of this year, I’ve been contemplating what to write about, going over those things I accomplished and those things I failed to see through during the previous 365 days. I was fortunate to publish two books in 2017: Slaying Dragons―a book of poetry, quotes, and short stories―and Eena, The Two Sisters from my epic fantasy series, The Harrowbethian Saga. My oldest son return from a mission where he served in Tokyo, Japan, and I helped him settle into a dorm room at a state University. I sent my second son to New Zealand where he is currently serving a mission. I worked as a committee chairman for my youngest son’s Boy Scout troop, and I also helped him to prepare for a performance in the local high school musical. I wrote a little poetry and penned a few words of wisdom, but overall I was unable to spend as much time writing as I hoped. There were goals and resolutions on my "to-do" list that were not accomplished.

     Pondering why I was able to see some goals through to the end while others I either partway finished or completely set aside, I came up with what I call the Five P's for Positive Progress. Catchy title, huh? Let's take a look at each one.

1) Priority: The goals I set as top priorities were the ones I saw through to the end. I learned that whatever moved to the forefront of my to-do list was accomplished. Things not considered a priority were neglected.

2) Planning: I have found this to be a huge determiner in accomplishing any goal―planning what, when, where, and how I intend to carry out each step. Writing down the reasons why I want to attain a certain goal motivates me to work at it. Neglecting to plan frequently results in failed attempts.


3) Partitions: My goals were more likely to be achieved when partitioned into small tasks that could be done in short stretches of time. Five or ten-minute tasks I fit into my schedule while time-consuming projects often took a back seat. The impressive thing was watching those five-minute efforts add up to big accomplishments.


4) Preference: The truth is, preferable activities tend to find a way into my daily routine. Goals that I find enjoyable I am willing to sacrifice for, be it a lunch hour or a little sleep. I can get by on five hours of sleep if it means reading a few more chapters in a book I love.


5) Profitable: There is motivation in profit, be it monetary or other benefits. When small accomplishments toward a larger goal result in pleasant rewards, it simply encourages more success toward achieving the end goal.


     This new year I once again made personal resolutions. I want to edit and publish book V and book VI in the Harrowbethian Saga before 2018 comes to a close. My son has challenged me to reach a running goal, one he set for himself as well. I also hope to work on writing more poetry with the intent of putting together a book of my best poems. The Five P's for Positive Progress will help me attain these goals. I know that I have to make them a priority and plan how I intend to accomplish each goal. That plan must include partitioning the whole into small tasks that can fit into my busy schedule. Lastly, I need to make the work both enjoyable and rewarding in order to motivate myself. It is doable!
I hope that these suggestions give you something to ponder as you set your New Year's resolutions. Good luck and Happy New Year! Happy reading too!

"If I must start somewhere, right here and now is the best place imaginable." 

— Richelle E. Goodrich, Making Wishes

Ask the Author

     For me, the absolute best thing about writing is the time I spend in make-believe worlds where I share adventures with characters of my own design. It brings great joy into my days and often helps me cope with real life characters whom, unfortunately, I cannot shape to my liking with an enchanted ink pen.




     I'm inspired to write in a number of ways. I surround myself with pictures and objects that remind me of stories I'm working on, things like dragons, pirates, model sailing ships, glittering butterflies, and my favorite statue of two fairies embracing. One of the best inspirational tools for me is to simply daydream for a while. Soon enough, I'm reaching for a pen and notebook to write down the dreamed adventure.




     First, if you want to be a writer, then WRITE! Spend less time thinking, studying, researching, learning, worrying about the art and just write! Write a sentence, a paragraph, a page every day of your life—about anything and everything. Scribble out a poem, a quote, a set of instructions, a portion of a developing novel, a letter to a friend, and so on. Read your work over and edit it. Then set it aside for a while before reading and editing it again. The point is,writing and re-writing are the exercises for authors that lead to excellence.

     Secondly, READ everything. Read books, articles, recipes, blogs, letters, cereal boxes, and so on. Pay attention to the details that draw you in. Note what causes you to lose interest. Keep a journal of what you learn, and refer to it now and then.

     Thirdly, pick up a basic GRAMMAR book and memorize it; put that knowledge to use.

#AuthorConfession

Have you been following #AuthorConfession on Twitter?  No? You should! I've had a great time participating in this daily question-and-answer activity, and I've learned lots about other authors and their WIPs (work in progress.) 

How does it work?  The hosts provide a question for each day of one month, and authors post their answers. It's that simple! Sometimes the questions are easy; others take a bit of thinking. Overall, it's been a blast! So much so that I thought I would blog my answers to the following questions...just in case you missed them on Twitter:

(Day 1) Introduce yourself and your WIP.

My name is Richelle E. Goodrich, American author and poet. I'm working on the 5th book in the Harrowbethian Saga (YA fantasy series) - Eena, The Tempter's Snare.

(Day 2) What's your favorite thing about WIP?

I love the many characters, their distinct personalities and the way they interact. I've fallen in love with a number of them.

(Day 3) What embarrasses your MC (main character)?

Public attention. And flowery compliments.

(Day 4) Tell us three things about your WIP.

1) It mixes known mythological characters with new... plus dragons.
2) Mallawum ball is big - sword fighting meets basketball?
3) Surprises wait around every corner.

(Day 5) Tell us three things about you.

1) Hot cocoa is my drink of choice.
2) I love the smell of myrrh & eucalyptus.
3) I have one freckle on my lower lip.

(Day 6) What is your MC's most important memory?

My MC's most important memory is recalling her royal identity after twelve years of believing she was someone else.

(Day 7) Who is the class clown in your novel?

The closest person to a class clown in my manuscript is Edgar, because he lacks any real cares, other than for himself.

(Day 8) Which character in your WIP would survive a zombie apocalypse?

I think all my main characters would survive a zombie apocalypse, only because Eena would step in and save them.

(Day 9) Describe your protagonist in three words.

Queen Eena is headstrong, impetuous, and very persuasive.

(Day 10) Character swap!

Swap Queen Eena for Kira the Mishmorat. The citizens of Harrowbeth would have to loosen up... a lot!

     Kira the feisty Mishmorat and Queen Eena of Harrowbeth

(Day 11) What's tough about this WIP?

What's tough about my WIP is the world refusing to be put on hold to allow me time to finish it! Priorities straight.

(Day 12) How do you treat yourself?

When I complete a writing goal, my greatest treat is to read it thru & think "that was awesome." Then I call my mom.

(Day 13) Best compliment you've had.

Honest truth: a woman read my saga after hearing about it and said, "I loved it more than Twilight." Made my year!

(Day 14) What's the big conflict in your WIP?

Whether to battle enemies alone or put friends at risk by accepting their help.

(Day 15) What's the strangest thing you've Googled?

I don't know that I've googled anything that strange. I suppose googling my own name is the strangest.

(Day 16) What makes your story shine?

Relatable, lovable characters. Fall in love with my characters = fall in love with the book.

(Day 17) What are you currently reading?

I just finished The Lion, the Witch, & the Wardrobe and now I'm reading Leven Thumps & the Gateway to Foo.

(Day 18) How would your WIP change if it became a musical?

My WIP is kind of a musical already; it has songs in it. But if it were a full-blown musical, there'd be lots of dancing!

(Day 19) What's your favorite comfort food?

Hot cocoa or pb&chocolate ice cream, depending on whether it's chilly or warm outside.

(Day 20) Which of the seven dwarves best fits your MC?

With her healing touch, Eena is definitely most like the Disney dwarf, Doc.

(Day 21) If you could time travel, where would you go?

If I could travel in time, I would go back to the creation of our world and watch how it's done.

(Day 22) Favorite fall activity?

"Trick or treat!"

(Day 23) Where else can we follow and support you?

Support my writing on my author website where there are links to all my social media. RichelleGoodrich.com

(Day 24) Selfie Sunday.

Sunday selfie: dressed up to go to church. I don't write on Sundays. I guess that's not too weird--or is it?

(Day 25) What's your coffee order?

If you dragged me into Starbucks, I would probably get a strawberry smoothie. Add whipped cream.

(Day 26) Word count report!

Word count for WIP is 80,432 - closer to "the end" than "in the beginning"!

(Day 27) What's your writing theme song?

Lately, my writing theme song has been "Unstoppable" by Rascal Flatts. I love them.

(Day 28) What are your tips for rejection?

I remind myself, many popular authors suffered repeated rejection before finding success. Why would my road be any easier?

(Day 29) Shout out an author friend.

Meet author Graham Downs from South Africa! Find a little fantasy, magic, & drama in his books.

(Day 30) What other talents do you have?

I illustrate my own books and play a little piano now and then. I'd like to learn to play the guitar too.