If you’ve been on this blog any at all, you know the answer to this.
The short answer: Yes.
The long answer: Yes, and I have 10 books (including 2 novels and a book of poems), 3 short ebooks, and 3 short stories available under Jen Nipps (nonfiction) and Kat O’Reilly (fiction). I have another book in the editing process with a publisher and at least two more in that series. (One in progress, one in planning stages.)
I’ve had multiple articles and other short pieces published in WritingforDollars, Ada Magazine, the Ada News, Writers’ Journal, World of Myth Magazine, and 4Health Magazine. This doesn’t include various anthologies and other websites and blogs.
Some of the articles that were published in WritingforDollars have been republished in short ebooks through JEN Enterprises Presents and are: Bop Your Way Through Writer’s Block, 3 Keys to the Kingdom, and Why You Need a Writing Practice.
The short stories I currently have available are “They Call Me Malak,” “Sex, Politics, & Vampires,” and “This Is Your Karma.”
I’m keeping track of other things I want to write, so this is not all that you’ll see from me.
It has been implied recently that I am not a “real” writer because I am not “serious” about my career. I’m not naming names or anything like it. That is counterproductive to what I am doing here.
It is true that I don’t brag and send out press releases every time I have something going on. That’s my fault. And that will change. But for now, here is a list of–well–a lot.
I have over 20 years of experience in writing for publication. My work has appeared in WritingforDollars.com (unfortunately now out of publication), Writers JOURNAL, Ada Evening News in the main paper (series on meth in Ada) and in the annual Progress Edition, Ada Hub Magazine, Ada Magazine, 4HEALTH Magazine,World Of Myth Magazine, and the OWFI Report (a column of website reviews and Internet-based tools for writers that ran for five years). Articles have also appeared on eHow.com and Demand Studios.
I am a hybrid author, meaning I have been traditionally and independently published. I have two novels and three short stories out under the pen name Kat O’Reilly. I have a series of short ebooks (currently three titles have been released with more to come), a book of devotions, a book about Twitter, books about creativity, and books about planning. Currently, I am working with The Wild Rose Press toward the publication of a paranormal/mystery novel, which is the first in a trilogy.
The complete list of my titles is:
Devoted to Creating: Igniting the Creative Spark in Everyone (currently out of print) Get “Twitter”pated: A Writer’s Handbook to Twitter
Windsong & Other Poems
80 Creativity Tips
Create Your Own DIY Planner
Project Planner for Creatives
8 Patterns to Crochet
Journal Your Way to Creativity
JEN Enterprises Presents: Why You Need a Writing Practice
BOP Your Way Through Writer’s Block
3 Keys to the Kingdom
Written as Kat O’Reilly: Navajo Rose
Kiernan’s Curse “They Call Me Malak”
“This Is Your Karma”
“Sex, Politics, & Vampires”
My articles, novels, and poems have won various awards. I have been a writer-in-residence on several occasions at the Writers’ Colony at Dairy Hollow in Eureka Springs. I have presented at conferences, civic organizations, and even this group. I have served as a contest judge for OKRWA (the Oklahoma chapter of RWA – Romance Writers of America) and OWFI. I have served in numerous volunteer positions within OWFI, including as 1st and 2nd Vice-President. If you are unfamiliar with the OWFI organization, the 1st VP is the person in charge of the contest.
I do not present any of this to put-down or disparage anyone. I mention it only to correct the implication that I am not “serious” about my career.
Whenever we are getting ready for the day, whether the night before or the morning of, we have routines. We know what we’re going to do and in what order. This is part of how we get ourselves motivated and going for the day.
If routines matter so much in the day-to-day operations of our lives, would they not also matter when it comes to your creative time? For that matter, let’s talk about your creative time for a minute.
Are you consistent? Do you have a specific time set aside that you work on creative projects or do you do it as the mood strikes or whenever the muse speaks to you?
I used to do it when the mood struck. Or when “the muse” spoke to me. I created only sporadically.
I don’t do that anymore. I create on a much more consistent basis. Why? What changed?
I started planning my creative time. I started developing a routine for getting started.
I am currently a full-time freelancer. I write books, articles, blog posts, and short stories. I make jewelry, knit, and crochet. These are all things I do to earn money, yes. But they are also all things I do to be creative. If I wanted to be consistent, if I needed to be consistent, I needed to have a routine for getting things done.
Even as a creative, I want to be taken seriously. I want people to think that I am a professional in what I choose to do. Because of that, consistency matters. And routines matter.
Routines helped me become more consistent. Routines help me stay consistent.
Look at what you do and why. Is it working for you? Do you create — in whatever form that may be — on a regular basis? Change your routine. Or, if need be, develop a routine. See how that works for you. I’m willing to bet you’ll be surprised.
I know what you’re thinking. You can’t schedule or plan creativity. Except that you can. By having a schedule/plan/routine, you trigger your mind into knowing this is your creative time. You sit down to work and “the muse” shows up.
What do you think? Let me know what tips you have to stay consistent in the comments below.
Did you see my post yesterday that included a short story? No? Don’t worry about it. You don’t have to go back and look at it. It’s OK.
It actually worked out to be an unintended experiment. And it showed me a few things.
While there are blogs where short stories are posted and well-received, this is not necessarily one of them. It does not mean it was a bad story or that no one liked it. It does mean that when you visit this blog, that is not the kind of content you come here to read.
I have worked to make my mark in two distinct niches: Creativity and social media. Over time, I have discovered that I am making some pretty good progress in those two areas. They are broad enough that I can write about many things that fall under those two umbrellas. They are also what I need to focus on here.
So let’s call yesterday’s post a social media experiment. It may have been an unintended one, but that is what it was. After all, isn’t that what most, if not all, social media is? An experiment to find out what works? It’s kind of like throwing spaghetti at the wall and seeing what sticks.
For me, creativity and social media stick. Thank you for helping me figure that out.
Today I have been going through some of my short stories and poems looking to see if I have anything suitable for an anthology I’ve been asked to submit to. In the process, i cam across this short story. It’s too long for the anthology and has a little bit of language that isn’t suitable, but I like it.
It’s centered around Halloween, but it’s not spooky-scary. I’ve decided to share it with you. This is something I would ordinarily publish under my pen name, Kat O’Reilly, since it is fiction. Here it is.
“Come on, Crys,” Donna said from the ticket booth. She and Adam had already paid for their ticket.
“I hate haunted houses,” she said, joining the group under the black awning.
“It’s not that bad,” Adam added. “You’ll be fine. We’ll all be in the same group and make sure you’re in the middle.”
“Haunted houses are great,” Tonya said behind her. “I used to run one. It’s fun. You’ll like it.”
“I doubt that,” Crys grumbled, getting her money out of the front pocket of her jeans to pay the ghoul guarding the door. “Anyone who enjoys haunted houses and being scared spitless has something seriously wrong with them.”
“Welcome to Chez Morte, where your worst fears will come true,” the ghoul said as the door opened.
Tonya, Doug, Angie, and Chad joined them before entering the dim interior.
Worst fears, huh? Crys thought. What? Are they going to make me think I’m blind? Can’t happen. She pushed her glasses up on her nose and wound her way through the roped-off lanes.
Another ghoul wearing a top hat made them wait at the gate. Beyond it, Crys heard screams and laughter–both nervous and sinister. A chainsaw revved in the back.
Crys, positioned in the middle of their group along with Chad, shivered and crossed her arms. “I wish I didn’t already pay for this.”
“You may enter Chez Morte,” the top-hat ghoul said, opening the gate. “Only five at a time.”
Crys looked over her shoulder at Tonya and Doug. That left her at the end of the group.
“We’ll catch up as soon as we can,” Tonya said as the gate swung shut.
Crys followed close behind Chad and stepped on his heels. “Sorry.”
After a long, sloping passage with flickering lights, they entered the first room. Spatters that looked like blood dotted the walls. A man and a woman sprawled on the once-white sofa.
Crys smiled slightly as she neared the door leading out of the room. That’s it? she thought when the woman jumped up off the sofa, yelling and screaming.
Crys yelped and ran through the doorway, bumping into Chad.
The next room turned into a maze of cells with monsters banging on the bars. Around the next corner, a Frankenstein lay on a table. He sat up as Crys walked past. She breathed a sigh of relief when he didn’t reach for her.
“Maybe this isn’t so bad,” she admitted to Chad. Donna and Adam walked ahead.
“Hold hands, everybody,” Adam called.
Crys swallowed and reached for Chad’s hand. It felt clammy.
When they were all together, Adam pushed the door in front of him open. All Crys could see was black. She shrugged.
The rest has been okay. It can’t be that bad.
When the door closed behind her, they were plunged into complete darkness. Crys’ breathing became quick and shallow.
“Oh, God,” she whispered. She clung tight to Chad’s hand. She swiped at unseen cobwebs. She bumped into things she preferred not to think about.
Immediately to her right, something screeched and cackled. She thought she could have touched it if she moved her right hand even a little bit.
“Oh, God,” she repeated. I can’t see anything! This wasn’t part of the deal. I want to get out of here.
She pressed forward, trusting Chad’s grip on her hand to lead her out.
Where are Tonya and Doug?
Ahead of her, another door opened. She let out a shaky breath when she saw the sliver of light grow.
Her relief lasted only long enough for the door to close behind her. The light began to flash. A strobe? She wished she could close her eyes. This could well give her a migraine.
A man in a gorilla mask lunged at her.
Chad let go of her hand.
Around the next corner, they walked in complete darkness again.
Crys wiped her hands on her jeans. Oh shit. She pushed her glasses up and inched forward, straining to see anything. Even at night, she had never seen it this dark.
Her breathing came quick and shallow again. “Let me out of here,” she whispered.
Something brushed against her shoulder and she yelped in surprise. She reached up and felt the plastic leg of a mannequin.
“Let me out,” she said again. She knew she was breathing too shallow. The room started to spin.
She shuffled forward and ran into the wall. Tears formed in her eyes.
She turned around. “Chad? Donna?”
No one answered.
“Oh, God. Let me out of here!”
The spinning in the room increased. She heard someone scream but thought it was another guest behind her somewhere.
She shuffled forward again. The toe of her shoe hit against something.
“Chad?” she asked, sobbing. The tears came anyway.
I can’t see. Why can’t I see? Where the hell am I? I want to get out of here.
Someone put a hand on her shoulder and guided her out of the room. The tears blurred her vision so she didn’t notice the door they went through or the behind-the-scenes activity.
She still breathed too fast.
Someone gave her a paper bag and spoke to her. She didn’t understand them. She held the bag numbly.
The cool October air brought her to her senses when they stepped outside.
She took a breath and tried to steady herself. “Thanks, Chad. I don’t know what…” She screamed when she looked up and saw it wasn’t Chad or anyone else from her group. A man with a hockey mask and Freddy Krueger claws on one hand still gripped her shoulder.
“Hey! It’s all right,” he said, pulling the mask off. “Sorry you got so worked up in there.”
“Yeah, well. I….” Crys let out a shaky laugh. “I really don’t like haunted houses. I didn’t even know we were coming to a haunted house.”
The man smiled. “I’ll wait out here with you until they come out then.”
He led the way to some folding chairs. Two monsters, minus their masks, smoked cigarettes.
“Just finishing up, boss,” the taller one said, dropping his butt on the sidewalk and crushing it with his foot.
“Good. Next group should be in place pretty soon.”
“How can you do this?” Crys asked, sitting in one of the chairs. Her knees still shook.
He shrugged and sat in the chair next to her. “Most people seem to like it.”
“Like being scared? Hell yeah. There’s nothing like it.”
She shuddered. “That’s just weird.”
He laughed then sobered. “Most people don’t hyperventilate, though. Speaking of which–” he indicated the paper bag she still held.
Crys shrugged. “I don’t need it now.”
“Humor me. I don’t need you having a heart attack and your friends suing me.”
She bent over, putting her head between her knees, and breathed in the paper bag for a few minutes. She kept stealing glances at her companion. She guessed he was about five-ten. Bits of dark blond hair poked out from under his ski cap. The Freddy claws were still on his left hand.
“What’s your name anyway?” she asked, sitting up and lowering the bag.
“Kyle.” He looked over at her. “You?”
“Short for Crystal?”
“You feeling okay now?”
“A little shaky, but better.”
“Cool.” He looked up at the sound of a chainsaw motor. “I think that might be your friends coming out now.”
Crys looked the way he pointed. She saw people running out of the building but not clearly enough to tell who they were at that distance. One stopped.
She recognized Donna’s voice.
“I thought she was behind me,” Chad said, looking around.
“Yeah, that’s them,” Crys told Kyle. She stood to rejoin her friends.
“Look, um… I know we almost scared you to death, but what would you say to getting together for a cup of coffee or something?”
“There you are!” Donna shouted as the chainsaw revved again. Tonya and Doug, along with the people they had been teamed up with, ran into the cool night. They started over to where Crys waited with Kyle.
“I promise to leave the mask and claws at home.” He smiled.
Damn, he’s cute. Surprised with herself, Crys laughed. “Okay.”
“Meet me tomorrow at Main Street Café?”
“Sure. What time?”
“I’ll be there.”
“See ya,” he said. He shook her hand and gave her shoulder a squeeze before he put the mask on and went back inside.
“What happened to you?” Donna asked, walking up to Crys.
“I got separated,” she said, starting toward the car with them.
Crys shrugged and related what she remembered, which was someone leading her out and what happened from there.
“So it was worth it then,” Tonya said.
“You got a date out of it.”
Crys started to protest but stopped herself. She couldn’t deny it. Kyle was nice. And nice-looking. “Well, yeah. You’re right on that,” she finally admitted. “But I don’t know that I’d say it was worth hyperventilating and being scared spitless.”
“Don’t you mean ‘shitless?’” Doug asked, unlocking the door to his car.
“No,” Crys said, shaking her head. “Spitless. Where your mouth is so dry you couldn’t swallow if you had to.”
Tonya laughed and opened her door after Doug unlocked it from inside. “Be sure to tell me how your date goes.”
She got in and Doug started the car. They waved and left.
“Where to next?” Donna asked as she and Adam got in the front seat of their SUV while Crys, Angie, and Chad squeezed into the back seat.
“Home!” Crys said.
“Spoil-sport,” Donna laughed. “All right. Home it is.”
* * *
Crys waited outside Main Street Café at ten-twenty-five the next morning. She looked in the window but didn’t see him there. She chewed on her bottom lip and looked up and down the street. She didn’t have to wait, did she?
Yes, I do! I said I’d be here and I will be.
She grabbed the door handle and prepared to go in when she heard a motorcycle rumbling up the street. She turned to look as the rider pulled up to a spot not too far from the door, put the kickstand down, and removed his helmet. He wore dark blue jeans, black boots, and a black leather jacket.
He got off the bike, deposited a couple coins in the meter, and looked around. He smiled when he saw Crys. “Surprised?”
She nodded. “Very. You look good.”
“Thanks. So do you.” Kyle unzipped the jacket, revealing a yellow shirt. He opened the door. “After you.”
Crys looked down at her green sweater and absently picked off a couple pills. He looked nice, like he thought about where he was going. She just wore the first thing she found this morning. She didn’t have to go to work and didn’t put much thought into what she wore. Now she wished she had.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, putting his hand on the small of her back and guiding her through the door.
Inside the café, a few patrons sat at the bistro tables. This time of morning was too late for the early-risers but too early for the lunch crowd. Crys’ shoes squeaked on the black tiled floor.
“What can I get you, folks?” the barrista asked when they approached the counter.
“A chai tea latte, regular-size,” Crys answered. She reached in her pocket for her money.
“This one’s on me,” Kyle said, making her pause. He addressed the barrista then, “I’ll have a tall mocha latte.”
“That’ll be seven-sixty-three.”
He gave the barrista the money, got his change, and led the way to a table farthest from the other customers. She went to work on their order.
“What time did you get done at Chez Morte?” Crys asked after they sat down. The table was chrome and black.
“About two o’clock.”
“And you wanted to be here this morning?”
He shrugged. “Why not?”
Crys could think of about a dozen reasons, the least of which being she wasn’t a morning person. “So…do you own Chez Morte? The guys last night called you ‘boss.’”
“Yeah.” He smiled and waited while the barrista put their drinks down on the table. “Really, I don’t have to be one of the actors, but I like it so much, I do it anyway.”
“Why?” She gingerly sipped at her hot chai.
“I was a drama geek in high school. College too.” He held up a hand as though to stop a protest. “I majored in business. When the old auditorium came up for sale, I bought it, gutted it, and opened Chez Morte.”
“What about when it’s not in season?”
“We’re always working on what’s next. Plus there’s the website and store.” He warmed his hands around his latte. “What do you do?”
Crys laughed. “You don’t really want to know.”
“Yeah, I do. You ask questions like you’re a reporter or something.”
She felt her face burn. “Is it that obvious?”
He leaned back, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
Briefly, Crys wondered what it would be like to kiss him. You don’t even know him!
“Why didn’t you get a press pass instead of paying to get in?”
“I could do that?”
“Sure.” He took a drink of his mocha latte. “Tell you what, why don’t you come by tonight. I’ll have a pass waiting for you at the ticket window. No. Wait. Come early, that way I can give you a behind-the-scenes tour of everything.”
“You’re not afraid of being exposed in some sordid tell-all article?”
He laughed. “You don’t write that kind of article.”
“How do you know?” She tried to act offended.
“I know,” he said and winked.
Crys stuck her tongue out at him. “What time should I be there?”
“We open up to customers at seven-thirty. Any time before then will be fine.”
He nodded. “I’ll have the pass for you at the ticket window. They’ll page me when you get there. What’s your last name?”
He grinned. “I knew you didn’t write sordid exposes. I’ve seen your work.”
“Fine. But I could, you know.”
“Only if you used a different name.”
Crys shrugged. He was right, but she wouldn’t tell him that.
“Can I give you a ride back to your place?”
“You have another helmet?” She stood when he did.
* * *
“That’s pretty well how it all comes together,” Kyle said at the conclusion of the tour. “If you were to go through it now, knowing all that, I don’t think you’d be quite as scared.”
“It would still be pitch black in those two rooms. That’s what did me in.”
He frowned. “Would you still scream at me if I helped you through?”
“You can’t do that.” Crys felt an odd warmth in her stomach that he would offer.
“I’m the boss,” he said, putting the Freddy claws on. He already had the ski cap. “No one would question me about it.”
She looked at him for a long minute. “Okay.”
He pulled the hockey mask down over his face. “I’ll even make you a deal.”
“You make it through the dark rooms, I’ll buy you dinner.”
“And if I don’t?”
“I’ll buy you dinner anyway.” He laughed.
“You just want me to go out with you.”
“Can’t blame a guy for trying, can you?” he asked.
She couldn’t see his smile behind the mask but she heard the humor in his voice.
“Go to the front so you’ll be in the first group. I’ll radio that you’re coming. I’ll be waiting for you. Just don’t try to split my eardrums.”
Crys laughed. “Sorry about that.”
“Don’t be. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at five-thirty for dinner.”