Nicole Sharp

Writes

Tag: Idaho (page 2 of 2)

Hopefully…

Hope is an interesting thing these days, isn’t it? I am stuck in a harsh wash cycle of hoping things work out and hoping I can fight the good fight for the long haul and hoping things will just somehow ‘work out’ over the next few years. The waxing, waning mess is akin to a gaggle of teenage hormones. Screaming and crying one minute; happy go lucky with a plan of action for their future the next.

Continue reading

A little protest story…

As a writer, I write to make myself feel better. Yes, my fingers have been flying across the keyboard this past week! II love when writing, short stories come out of nowhere and I follow them to their ends. I thought you’d like a little something different today! Continue reading

No place like home

 

20140804_164004

View of Boise from the Depot

I forget the gem of a state I have here in my little corner of the world. And I’m thankful for my trips this summer that have reminded me why I’ve made this place my home.

Rumi said “It may be that the satisfaction I need depends on my going away, so that when I’ve gone and come back, I’ll find it at home.

My idol, Madeline L’Engle said “Maybe that’s the best part of going away for a vacation – coming home again.”

And sure that’s what I’m feeling.

Continue reading

Quick plug…

1-1234699141PRLF

I’ve got a new writing gig.

I was hired by Trip101, a travel blog written by travel writers. (As well as the occasional fiction writer.)

If you get a chance, stop by for a gander. I’m trying to write at least 3-4 articles a month, so check back often.

Trip101

Why I call my blog the Writing Moose…

20150616_092416Why writing moose?  Have we talked about this yet?

First off, the ‘writing’ part is pretty straight forward. I’m a writer.

Second, the moose.  This is easy and at the same time kind of a long story.

So.

Moose are my spirit guide.

Now you don’t have to buy into spirit guides, I mean, I do because I’m 1/234 Cherokee, on my mother’s side.  Actually, I’ve never given spirit guides much thought beyond Native American Folklore.

And when I was 18, a spirit guide was the farthest thought from my mind.  At that time, I was busy buying into being lost and not sure what I wanted to do with my life.
Continue reading

I am…

downloadI am a forty year old writer who has been sitting in my ‘cave’ writing stories and pretending to be a writer for as long as I can remember. Those of you who know me might ask why are you putting yourself down? because as far as you’re concerned, I am a ‘writer’.

You see, I haven’t owned it. Owned my ‘writer-ness’. I have always had a very difficult time introducing myself as a writer.

“What do you do?”
“I’m a writer?”
“Oh really? Have you ever been published?”
“Why yes, I have been.”
“Would I have read any of your work?”

This is where things get sticky. I have been published in several magazine I write for, but it’s not fiction. I put my little shine on my articles, but the editors tend to rub the shine off a bit. I have had several short stories published in literary journals. I have had one short story published in an anthology. I have a blog I try to update once a week, but often times I only get to once a month. So where would they have read my work?

It’s such a strange moment and I never know how to deal with it, so I sweep my identity away with a wave of my arm and a shrug. At my twenty year high school reunion, I was asked the dreaded question, “what do you do these days?” I replied, “I’m a stay at home mom.”

Thank God for good friends who know my heart and soul and intervened and announced, “Um, no. She’s a writer.”

It is a difficult thing, to call myself a writer. An author. A storyteller. A novelist. A wordsmith.  Maybe it’s easier for others, but for me, it’s difficult.

I attended my first writing convention this past weekend. I have never done this before because I never had the funds, though, had I wanted to, I’m sure I could have scrapped them up. I have never done this before because I was scared to.  I was scared of what others might think of me, what I might learn about being a writer, or find, when all was said and done, I didn’t have it in me.

Registration day came, and there I was, a grown woman, scared as if it was my first day at a new school. But with my shoulders back, I walked through the front door because it’s time to do something new with my writing.

I can write all I want in my house, I can blog my random thoughts, and I can enter a few submissions once a year, but if I ever want to do something more with my writing, if I ever want to show more people my writing, I have to do something different and go out in the world. I set up a meeting with a professional editor and I set up a meeting to pitch one of my books to an agent.

I am a new woman this morning.

I am a writer.

The agent was reserved, which I think is her personality, but after talking about my book and pitching it, she wants to see a synopsis and the first fifty pages. So okay, cool. That’s an open door.

Then I met with the editor. Talk about someone you connect with right away. She blew me away when she told me that my writing was strong, my voice fresh, and my talent amazing. She called me ‘Rock Star’ and I laughed and tried to hide my tears because I haven’t had too many professionals who live in the writing world gush about me in person.
She told me that I was a writer, and she understood how difficult that was to embrace, but the more I embraced that idea, the more I would begin to act like a writer and the more I would do things that a writer would do. It is that whole ‘fake it til you make it’ idea. But her words rang true in my chest.

Then, to wrap up an overwhelmingly positive weekend, the short story I had entered in the short story contest hosted by the conference won second place.
I heard esteemed writers talk about their craft and share their secrets. I heard their stories, and they all had the same message, just keep writing, if you believe in it, if you work at honing your craft, you will get published.

The final speaker of the evening was a gentleman by the name of Ron Powers, he is the definitive expert on Mark Twain. He had a long list of credentials that included a Pulitzer Prize among other things.

He spoke eloquently about writers, he spoke about us as a group of men and women who have given up on traditional dreams and who had knowingly chosen to live our lives creating imaginary friends, filling blank pages with our souls, and tried to hold fast to the dream of holding a book in our hands for the first time. He spoke about that patron saint of writers, Mark Twain. About how that man changed the vernacular of the story and invented The American Story; American literature. He gave a nation its voice. He insisted that we writers were the continuation of that tradition.  His voice was strong and true and I fear I am not doing Mr. Power’s words justice.

The end of the evening came and I walked home with my head held high and an amazing feeling of direction fill me.

Because after all; I am a writer.

Detour

I haven’t talked about the book launch. book launch 1Sometime in June of 2013, I received a nice little letter telling me that one of my short stories had been accepted as part of an anthology of local upcoming writers here in my little corner of the world.  I was pleased.  As a struggling writer, for all these years, the little wins that give me legs to get back to my stories.  It is a surge of inspiration and a reboot for the artistic soul when someone comes along and says, ‘hey, by the way.  As a writer, we think you’ve got something.’

Well, December the book came out.  Detour: Writers in the Attic was published through The Cabin Literary Center here in Boise.

I was able to attend the book launch party.  It was a nice little affair, about 200 people showed up to support the 24 of us authors who were published.  They choose six people to read from their stories and there was music during the intermission and the wine and beer flowed freely.  I was even asked to sign a few books.  Oh, that was a drug of choice let me tell you!  To have strangers come and ask, ‘could you sign my book?’ and to do so.  That moment was unlike any really, it was a two second moment, signed my name and done, but it lasted a life time as suddenly, the whole angst of awkward teenage years, the heartache of old boyfriends, the laughter of late nights, the inspiration of dusky hours, the tears of disappointment…they all meant something in that one moment.  It was strange and delightful and I still don’t want to spend too much time dissecting it and getting to the heart of what it all ‘means’ because dammit , for one night, I had a short story in a book that has an ISBN number and it felt simply awesome.

So to you, my readers who I appreciate so much, thank you for your continued support.  Just reading my little blog here keeps me writing some days.

Salute!

Newer posts

© 2019 Nicole Sharp

Theme by Anders NorenUp ↑