A toxic lake with a glamorous past

One good way to procrastinate about writing is to do research.

Yesterday I was working on a ghost story set at the Salton Sea. My husband and I had been to the Salton Sea a few times. Twice we rode along the length of the giant saltwater lake with the HOGs (Harley Owners Group). Once we stayed at a nearby RV park with friends and went Jeeping along the north shore.

To a Californian accustomed to seeing hundreds of boats and jet skis on any body of water, it was amazing to see an empty lake with only birds flying above it. From a distance, the water looked bright blue, the blue of a calm ocean. It seemed out of place in the middle of a rocky, sandy desert surrounded by mountains.

After doing my research, now I understand the Salton Sea is an unfortunate and poisonous ditch.

The Salton Sea first appeared after man’s interference with the Colorado River. A canal broke in 1905, causing water to escape into a dry lakebed at the southern end of the San Andreas fault. At first, it was considered a lucky accident, and developers rushed in to build resorts. The state stocked it with saltwater fish to lure fishermen. The desert’s quiet was broken by the sound of ski boats and laughing families on vacation.

In the 1950’s, celebrities, including Frank Sinatra, the Beach Boys, and Bing Cosby, came down from Palm Springs to hang out at The Ski Inn bar and The Waterfront. A state park was established near Bombay Beach, a small community at the water’s edge. People began to buy property in the area. It became an oasis in the desert.

However, as local farmers pumped out water and desalinated it for their date palm and citrus groves, the remaining water in the Salton Sea became more salty and polluted with pesticides. By the 1970s, fish started dying and people started having health problems. With only trickles of water entering the lake and no outlet, the Salton Sea became toxic to animal and plant life. Not exactly where you would want to spend your vacation.

When the Salton Sea flooded in the 1970s, it took away part of the small community of Bombay Beach. Small homes and trailers were stranded in the salty water. As they sank into the water, a white crust formed around them, making them appear to be melting. Looters took valuable copper wire and the rest was abandoned. A dike was built around the remainder of Bombay Beach to preserve what was left.

Then the artists came. They took the post-apocalyptic ruins and made them into art installations. A retro drive-in sign points to a group of rusted, broken down cars set up in rows, pointing toward a white semi-trailer representing a outdoor movie screen. A small fighter plane was set up as a sculpture. A ruined house was decorated with bright-colored children’s toys.

An accident. A tourist destination. A toxic ruin. An artistic statement. The Salton Sea is all those things and yet more. Perhaps it reveals the limitations of man’s control over nature. Maybe it reminds us that we don’t know it all.

That was how I spent my Sunday afternoon. Looking at photos and watching videos. Did I finish the short story I was working on? Not yet. But it was fun digging into the past life of the Salton Sea.

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“An Android Goes to School” published in Backchannels Literary Magazine

My short story, “An Android Goes to School,” is currently featured in Backchannels Literary Journal Edition 11. This story was inspired by a writing prompt given at a SCBWI writing retreat, so keep all your writing exercises and activities. You never know when they might inspire you.

Follow the link below to read the story:

/https://backchannelsjournal.net/edition-11-fiction-edition-winter-2023/an-android-goes-to-school/

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Writing in the Dark

Writers often complain about finding more writing time in their day. As a retired teacher, I thought I would have endless hours to type on my laptop, scribble outlines into notebooks, or muse about new story ideas. Instead, my schedule filled up quickly. I have heard it said, and now understand: “I am busier now than when I was working full-time.”

So I returned to my old writing time. It’s hard to turn off the alarm at 5:00 am and jump out of my warm bed. I’m not working. Why would I get up so early? I’ll admit sometimes I’ve hit the snooze button and gone back to sleep. But when I got up and grabbed my coffee, I’ve never regretted it.

Early morning. The perfect time to write. It’s so quiet I can hear my brain work. My husband and dogs are asleep. No daylight beckons me to go outside. Too early to do laundry or mop the floor.

My mind is a blank slate, not yet overloaded with the day’s problems and responsibilities.

Ideas flow. Possibilities seem endless.

Getting up that early may not work for you. You may prefer the dark hours of the evening. But the idea is the same.

Find the quiet hours in your day and use them for writing. You will find there is great reward gained by writing in the dark.  

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The Itsy-Bitsy Spider

Rain has been pounding on my roof all night. And most of yesterday. Today it’s going to be the same. I’m stuck inside my house, longing to stretch my legs and feel sunshine on my face.  

Storm after storm after storm. No chance to catch my breath.

I’m not the only one who’s gone through storms over this holiday season. Each person has their own storms to face. To someone else, my problems would only be annoyances. For me, as each problem piles on top of the next, it becomes mind-numbing.

Incessant rain. Grey, swollen skies that hold the day captive.

My creativity is held captive with the California sunshine. My hands hover over my laptop keyboard yet nothing is typed on my screen. Maybe the query rejections were right. Maybe writing a novel is too hard.

Maybe my story is not important.

My responsibilities come tumbling out like junk out of a woman’s purse. Days fill up with important tasks. People I care about need me. When things break, it takes time and money to fix them.

Cars drive by my house, splashing up water from the gutters.

An email arrives. A short story I wrote last year was shortlisted for a fiction contest.

Silence catches my attention. The rain has stopped.

Maybe I can write a story that is important.

My hands fly over the keyboard. Characters, storylines, wonderful places flood my mind. When my stolen moments pass, the story takes hold in my mind and rests there, waiting for my next writing time.

Out comes the sun and dries up all the rain.

And the itsy-bitsy spider climbs up the spout again.

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The dark season of waiting

It has been a great year for my writing. Four of my short stories were chosen for anthologies, both digital and printed forms. I now have an Amazon author page. Even though it was modest, I received my first advance paid for my writing. You would think this would create a happy bubble of encouragement.

But it’s also been a year of rejection for my novels.

For an author seeking traditional publishing, the first fortified gate I must scale is finding a literary agent. The querying process is a torturous process that offers little feedback except “you’re not what we’re looking for.”

I could self-publish, but it can be an expensive and grueling process for a mere peasant like myself. Some small publishers take queries from unagented authors, but again I find myself in the dungeon of waiting. As time passes like dripping water down the stone walls, the lack of answer becomes the answer.

There is a bright spot in the dark and damp. My critique groups. While there are readers eager to embrace your character’s struggle, authors will keep on writing.

Even in the dark, even when all seems lost.

Authors create stories and readers give them life.

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25% off Witchy Tales

You can now get the e-book version as well as the print version at 25% off.

ONLY UNTIL 11/15/22

Go to Wolfsinger Publications and use discount code NewReleaseWitch to get 25% off the print version.

https://www.wolfsingerpubs.com/shop

Go to Smashwords and use the discount code FG24V to get 25 off on the e-book.

Get yours now and curl up by the fire with your hot apple cider to enjoy!

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Just in time for Halloween

Check out my short story, “Skulls on a Shelf” in the anthology Never Cheat a Witch. You can buy it in Kindle or paperback on Amazon. You’ll never feel the same about DIY craft projects.

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Elm flowers

The tiny, shriveled blooms collecting in my swimming pool tell me change is on the way.

Although the sun still sends a trickle of sweat down my cheek, twilight approaches sooner every day. I still wear shorts. The air conditioner still rumbles. But there is a promise of cooler days to come.

If I were back in the state I was born, leaves would turn yellow, red, and brown before swirling to the ground. The wind would have a cool bite. But here in California, the elms in the front yard shed their leaves, but the citrus trees hold theirs green. Nights will be slighter cooler, though not enough to get a jacket out of the closet.  

But no one can escape change, not even Californians.  

Hope and dread war in my heart. How reassuring would it be if everything stayed the same. As I look around, change never stops. Majestic mountains are brought down, rock by rock. Rivers carry garbage to the ocean. Forests are devastated by raging fires, and farmlands drown in floods. Natural wonders are shadows of their original untouched beauty.

As the years pass, I also cannot escape the ticking clock of time. New wrinkles, grey hair, dental work, aching joints. They remind me that my body has an expiration date. And I can’t renew my extended warranty.

But as the Californian rock band, Switchfoot, wrote, “this skin and bones is a rental.” When my travels on Earth are over, I will move to a more beautiful place. A place not touched by viruses or pain. A place where beauty cannot be corrupted.

So I mourn not for what is lost. Instead, I smile to see piles of elm flowers crumbled in the street. They are my promise that change is coming, and someday I will be home.

The tiny, shriveled blooms collecting in my swimming pool tell me change is on the way.

Although the sun still sends a trickle of sweat down my cheek, twilight approaches sooner every day. I still wear shorts. The air conditioner still rumbles. But there is a promise of cooler days to come.

If I were back in the state I was born, leaves would turn yellow, red, and brown before swirling to the ground. The wind would have a cool bite. But here in California, the elms in the front yard shed their leaves, but the citrus trees hold theirs green. Nights will be slighter cooler, though not enough to get a jacket out of the closet.  

But no one can escape change, not even Californians.  

Hope and dread war in my heart. How reassuring would it be if everything stayed the same. As I look around, change never stops. Majestic mountains are brought down, rock by rock. Rivers carry garbage to the ocean. Forests are devastated by raging fires, and farmlands drown in floods. Natural wonders are shadows of their original untouched beauty.

As the years pass, I also cannot escape the ticking clock of time. New wrinkles, grey hair, dental work, aching joints. They remind me that my body has an expiration date. And I can’t renew my extended warranty.

But as the Californian rock band, Switchfoot, wrote, “this skin and bones is a rental.” When my travels on Earth are over, I will move to a more beautiful place. A place not touched by viruses or pain. A place where beauty cannot be corrupted.

So I mourn not for what is lost. Instead, I smile to see piles of elm flowers crumbled in the street. They are my promise that change is coming, and someday I will be home.

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