Ha, this is what my editing process looks like sometimes. Seems like a mess, I know, but no worries, it's all arranged beautifully in my noggin.
I do indeed work on the computer, yes, but in the end stages, I can see more changes I need to make when I print it out.
Just my little process. And it is a process!
Almost there now, SO CLOSE. SO SOON. BOOK FOUR. And the title is.......
COMING SOON,
C.A. MacConnell
Here's the sucker I'm working on. I was editing today, and I had that feeling...yes, nice. I'm just loving these characters. Complex and real. Can't wait for you all to read Book Four.
Hope you're staying safe and warm out there. Love, always,
C.A. MacConnell
Heya. Printed out Book Four for the second time today, all 392pp. The guy on the printer next to me said, "Congratulations." I believe he is the real Santa. Anyway, he made me smile. :) I felt great about this step. I didn't feel great about much else, hahaha. No Covid, but I do have the flu or something. Ick. I still walked today, because I'm so stubborn about resting and following directions. I suppose tonight I'll curl up with my chills and watch Hallmark or some shit.
Sending out all my love to you,
C.A.
Heya. I dig this little artsy photo. Hope you do as well. This tiny place has the best fucking coffee...a little hidden diamond that sits on a route where no business survives. But this little sucker keeps on rolling.
So, when I reached 350pp. on Book Four, I said to myself, Self, the book is done. Just a little fine tuning. Well, since then, I've added some muscle, and I've been filling in detail from the inside out. You know, like a water balloon. Now, I'm at a monster 390pp., and it's full. Not quite sure how that happened, but it happened.
I feet sure about the changes, though; it's all necessary extra juice that the book needs. As I like to say, it's slick.
Anyway, COMING SOON! Book Four. Stay Tuned. And I'm hoping I will say this: yes, it's on a bestseller list near you!
And...in the spirit of Black Friday, Cyber Monday, and whatever other sneaky deals are going on in the universe, if you're looking for a Christmas gift for a book lover, or if you're looking for a book for YOU, I have three others out there on Amazon, and they're all waiting for you and your sanitized hands. No, the books are not a series, but all three have a mystery element, and they're fast-paced with heart and witty dialogue. Right on. Don't think it over. Buy this shit...
Check these out (Click the link for a description):
My debut: GRIFFIN FARM (13 and up, I'd say. Of course, I was reading adult fiction at 10, go figure.)
Book Two: THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR (adult language and themes)
Book Three: STRANGE SKIN (appropriate for all ages)
Thanks for stopping by, and I wish you the best on your adventure or nap, whatever the case may be. Gotta go put my mask on. Much love to you, always,
C.A. MacConnell
She watches the ladies
ride. For hours,
she watches.
Keeping
time.
The adults come in the morning.
Breeches and
tall,
leather
boots.
The kids roll in
some
afternoons.
Jeans and half-chaps.
She knows that
together,
what she sees --
what they wear --
is worth
thousands.
Today the high is fifty-two.
Tomorrow looks
similar.
The chestnut mare and Orion, the black,
may
need
sheets.
One grey, dirty, barn cat
loves her.
She pushes the
thing away.
Nine stalls left.
And then the shavings.
She pretends
that the bay one is
hers.
She cleans her
paddock boots. For no reason,
she polishes the toe
until it
shines.
Ryan shakes her hand,
and she goes
home.
C.A. MacConnell
Choosing Peace
an essay I wrote some time ago. I was thinking about the idea of choosing peace right now, and I thought I'd repost. Much love to you, C.A.
A while back, I was driving through the side streets in a shifty part of
town. It was pitch black in those alleys, and when I looked out into
the night, I saw a lone, dark shape smack in the center of the road. I
squinted, hit my brakes, and looked closer. The shape was distorted, as
if there were too many arms. I looked closer. Crutches.
Then I saw that she wasn’t an adult woman at all. She was a girl around
thirteen years old, and she only had one leg. The right one. There she
was, wandering around in the dark, hobbling on her crutches, and from
the hip down, on the left side, there was nothing but air. Alone, she
slowly made her way down that dark street. For a moment, she stopped,
looked through my windshield, and stared at me. Hard. Strong. Not a
twitch, a flinch, or a break in her look. And then she turned, making
her way forward into the shadows.
As I drove on, I thought about the tough look on her face, and I
wondered what had happened to her -- how and when she lost that leg.
Then I thought about what it might be like to be her -- a young teen
making her way through the world with a disability that was so fiercely
apparent. Of course, I could never really know what it would be like to
be her. I could never truly understand the exact challenges she would
face in the neighborhood, at school, and in her entire world, inside and
out.
And then I thought about her strong countenance, her steel-sharp look,
and the way that she moved forward in spite of her disability, trooping
through the dark streets despite the danger all about her. No, I could
never fully understand the way that she would feel, but I felt a raging
connection to her. I couldn’t shake the vision of her. It touched me. It
stuck with me.
Today, thinking of her, I'm reminded to pick and choose my battles.
Over the years, at times, when I saw injustice directed toward those
with disabilities, I stood up, spoke out, spoke up, or wrote about it,
although it took a great deal of strength, and it was often draining and
incredibly difficult; sometimes it affected me for years after. Indeed,
right here, right now, as I write to you, I'm remembering the aftermath
of some of the comments -- the stress, stigma, panic, judgment, and the
like. And then I remember the other comments -- the letters, emails,
thank yous, the ones that made it all worth it.
Other times, I let go, or "let things slide," as I like to say, and I
trudge forward in spite of the darkness that may be around me, like her.
I can share my story and help when it feels heart-right, but at other
times, I can hold it close. Indeed, it is hard to find that balance, but
through experience, I have certainly gathered a lot of knowledge over
the years. Lately, I've been focusing on my own journey; I've decided
that the best way to fight is to live my life to the fullest, to be an
example of truth and strength, in the best way that I know how. Flawed
at times, sure, but I'm giving it my best shot.
So let me be strong in the darkest of alleys and speak up when it’s
right and true, when the moment calls for it, but also, let me be aware
of the times when I need to allow myself to settle into peace, and let
me embrace the wisdom to know the difference. That little girl reminded
me that whether I'm fighting strong or listening and meditating, I can
choose to be true to myself, and I can choose peace.
C.A. MacConnell
You
are sick again, filling your prescription at the counter in a feverish daze, back turned
to the fast walkers who cut through the crowd with shopping cart
weapons, cursing
yourself because you still want a cigarette. You finish
muttering your condition, hand
the
white slip to the coated, vague bodies, and turn around, looking for a place to
linger,
when you see him waiting for his name, sitting in the row of uniform
chairs, one empty
on either side of him. You sit down on his left, notice his
soiled skin, the wide-lined
scars,
the way his clothes hang on his frame as if one move would make them fall,
piece
by piece, until he is naked, another man with the same anatomy, labels on
the parts
that
make him alive. You feel like patting yourself on the back. No one else would
have
gotten
so close. A suited, fat man struts up to your scarred partner in waiting,
studies
his
appearance, asks him if he’d like a chance to better himself, to find a job, to
clean up,
leaves him a thick brochure, and drifts down the aisles with a holy
grin. The scarred man
shakes
his head, looks into you with blue eyes clear as an ache, strong as your
hacking
cough that just won’t go away, and says, You just never know about people, before he
grips your hand and
tells you his name, tells you to take care. There is nothing polite
in
the way his soft, tired voice works through his chest to his limbs, leaves the
thick lips.
Before he even spoke, you
knew him. Before he even took your hand, you were already
touching. A smile,
some kind of tug in your chest, and the joy of strangeness makes you
want
to collect everyone in a circle, close your eyes, listen to each mysterious
song
of
skin and bones, cup your hand around the closest ear, and whisper, Pass it on.
C.A.
MacConnell
The Jaguar is broken
down,
and in the traffic's face,
I am making
wolf eyes,
feeling the speed of machine
cheetahs,
because no honest beast slows down,
and the hot air burns any cheek,
like sun-beat bars on a steel cage,
and the closest
rest stop
is five hundred tracks away,
and I wonder
where you are killing
lunch.
Pretty strange to think that the above stack of paper has consumed me for the past year. And there were a few sections that I worked on for some years in the past as well. People always ask, "How long did it take you to write that book?" Often, I don't know how to answer, because pieces of each book have come to me over time. Overall, if I think about the process literally, it spans 20 years sometimes, considering life
experience and sections I've written in the past. So this is my
answer...it takes a long, long time. But after fucking around, when I get cracking and focus, it usually takes a year, and it rolls out fast.
This will soon be Book Four...now I'm editing on the page. I can see necessary revisions better when I change to paper. It's exciting to be this far along on the sucker.
Hey, I saw the movie, Ava, last night, which I loved. <3 Jessica Chastain, so talented. Badass movie. <3 Colin Farrell, John Malkovich, Geena Davis! What a cast. It was so good that I sat through an entire pixelated, messed up version of it, since my cable was not cooperating. Alas, I'm going to have to see it again at some point, but I will say this: Chastain even looks stunning in slo mo and pixelated.
Hope you're well. This year has sure been challenging for everyone. Here's to creation. Here's to art. And here's to everyone getting by day to day with a will to survive despite life's hiccoughs.
Love to you,
C.A. MacConnell
Again, September wind rushes in,
carrying the sound
of red-tailed hawks,
and I'm surrounded
by the screech of it.
Look, the wings always
come back. Inside, they know.
No one ever reminds them
that it's their season.
Here, the fields are wild,
too-tall, and narrowly fenced-in;
some blades nearly touch
my thigh. Like prairie grass,
loose, calm waves sway yellow,
here and there singed
from another changed summer,
and outside every day,
but for the few fly nets,
these horses are naked.
First, I am muscle and manic
with the new, a baby
trying to prove myself.
We ache, made of bones
and skin, like them.
You and I live
for the strange, big eye,
the flight, the fresh-cut hay,
the hidden music
within animal silence,
and the clapping laughter
of the crowd.
Sometimes I get this life;
it makes sense to clean, feed,
sweat through the jeans,
and keep the blood
close to the heart.
It makes sense
to walk right
when leading the barefoot Paint
to the pasture,
making sure his hooves
strike the grass path,
rather than the gravel one,
because I see him squint,
and I know the journey must sting
without shoes.
C.A. MacConnell
