Jaye Wells

Author Archives: Jayewells

Taking it Old Skool

The meeting with the recruiter went pretty well. Apparently there is a high demand for copy editors and proofreaders in the area. Should hear something soon.

They made me take two tests to prove I knew what I was doing. I did pretty well, but, man, I hate proofing online. It took me twice as long to find typos because I don’t trust my eyes when the words are electronic. This is my excuse for the typos I always find on the Blahg after I post. For some reason I just don’t see words as well onscreen.

Basically, I’m old school. Print that baby out and attack it viciously with a red pen. I’m the same way about reading. No offense to my e-book-published brethren, but I need to feel the paper in my hands.

Paper is a multi-sensory experience: the musty scent, the swish when you turn the page, the texture of the paper which tells you whether it’s expensive or glorified pulp… It’s downright sensual and that’s the way I like it.

How about you? Do you like it hard or soft? Copy, pervert–copy.


Welcome to November. Has anyone else noticed that the marketing for Christmas starts earlier every year?

I feel like I already need a spa day and we haven’t even hit Thanksgiving yet. If anyone would like to donate to the Send a Writer to the Spa fund, let me know.

Today, I’m meeting with a company that specializes in freelance and contract jobs for creative professionals. I’m a little nervous; though I’m not sure why. Even though I haven’t freelanced in a year, I’ve probably written and edited more in that year than I used to in my magazine editor position. Perhaps it’s the prospect of having to answer to someone again. But man, it would be nice to earn actual money for playing with words.

I promise my posts will be fun again once life settles down a bit. In the meantime, why not torture a beaver?


Happy Halloween, kiddies!

Someone absconded with my witch hat with the purple hair, so I was forced to use the cat ear headband a friend gave me as party of a Halloween goodie bag. So I guess my costume is mom with cat ears.

In honor of Halloween, I have a few tricks and treats for you.

First, how much do you know about Samhain? I had no idea until about two months ago how that word is supposed to be said–“Sow-en” not “Sam-hayne”. Although, I think the second pronunciation is accepted in some circles.

Second, a fascinating interview with Anne Rice, queen of the night.

Third, I’m gonna have to send you back to Witch School.*

Fourth, doing some research into witches for a book? Don’t know your cinquefoil from your cyclamen? Check out the Magickal Cat herbal grimoire.

I hope everyone has a spooky holiday. I’ll be back tomorrow with a sugar hangover.

*Anyone who can figure out the song I’m referencing gets a piece of candy corn.


Man alive! Is it Halloween already? Yeah, I know it’s tomorrow, but still. How the heck did it get to almost be November again?

Anyway, today is the obligatory Halloween post on the Blahg. I spent yesterday carving a pumpkin to look like Thomas the Tank Engine and roasting pumpkin seeds. That is all in addition to taking care of gimp hubby. If I get the energy, I’ll take a pic of the pumpkin.

We’re doing the traditional trick or treat thing around here. Spawn is going as…Thomas the Tanks engine. Are we sensing a theme yet?

I don’t really dress up, although I do have witch hat with a long purple wig attached that I wear. I miss the days when I actually put thought into my own Halloween costume and had parties to attend.

The best year was the one where I decided to go as the chick M&M–you know, the green one with the go-go boots.

My problem was I started talking about this costume at least two months before Halloween. Here’s a hint about me, the more I talk about something the less likely it is that I will actually follow through.

Instead of buying the real M&M costume, I decided I’d make my own. So the day before the party , I went to the craft store. Bought a large green t-shirt and foam tape. Taped an M on the shirt, put on my white go-go boots left over form a college party I once attended. Voila–an M&M! Or so I thought.

Except it was apparent a few seconds into the party that no one knew what the hell I was. First of all, you’re probably all aware the M&Ms are round. At that time in my life—I was a size 8. I’m 5’7″. Thus, not so round. Second, the foam tape threw people off for some reason.

The consensus at the party was that I was either a blade of grass or a scallion.

On second thought, maybe it’s best I don’t have to create my own costume any more…

Is anyone out there dressing up? And does anyone else have an embarassing costume story?

I Swear I Haven’t Been Stealing Hubby’s Meds

First, thanks for all the well-wishes for Mr. Jaye. He’s doing well and slept most of yesterday. Today, Spawn comes home from Grandma’s, so we’ll see how long it takes for him to commandeer crutches for nefarious purposes.

Hospitals are ripe grounds for writers. The facility we were at was located in a nice suburb. It lacked that institutional decor so common in most hospitals. Someone had spent serious bucks to decorate this place. Plus, the had free wireless, coffee and muffins. It was kind of like a hotel with people running around in ass-baring gowns.

Anyway, so this wasn’t an urban E.R. filled with the angst of the streets. Just mostly normal looking people. No one was crying or seemed seriously ill. Yet, sometimes I think those kinds of environments are more interesting. Instead of in-your-face drama to feed off of, there’s a challenge. The guy with the iPod over there, what’s his story? What secrets is he hiding behind that affluent yuppie veneer? And the grandmother. What life stories does she keep hidden in her wrinkles? The little boy begging for a sucker from his mom. What will life bring him? Will he be a good person? Or will his mother cry over the monster he’ll become?

There’s a chance I might have had too much free coffee and too little sleep yesterday. But even well-rested and decaffeinated, I spend a lot of time looking at people and wondering. I used to think this was because I was weird. But now I know it was a clue that I needed to become a writer. That means I can never give up writing cause then I’ll just be a freak again. That sounds like a great slogan:

Writers–Not your average freaks.

Feel free to use it.

Writing for Money and Narcotics

I’m off today playing nurse-maid to Mr. Jaye, who is having knee surgery. Not to worry, it’s a standard ACL repair. I should be able to check in while he’s in his Percoset-induced stuppor, though.

In other news, I’ve decided to go back to freelancing. I’d taken a hiatus from it to pursue writing novels. But now I’ve learned how slow this whole publishing process is, and realized I have time to do writing that actually pays me again.

It’s kind of funny. I’ve gotten so used to being slug in the book publishing world that I forgot that I am actually have skills that are in demand in the real world.

Anyway, that’s what’s up in Blahgland. Hopefully on Friday I’ll have interesting things to discuss regarding sitting in a hospital waiting room for six hours and eavesdropping on people’s conversations. Plus, a hubby on narcotics is always good for a laugh or two.

In the meantime, here’s a question of the day to amuse you:
What is the most embarassing injury you’ve ever had?


I have a history of witnessing or overhearing weird things. Not sure if I just look for odd things or if I just hang out in the wrong places.

Take a trip to Charleston about five years ago. A group of ladies from work and I took a road trip for a girls’ weekend. Charleston is magnificent–one of my favorite towns. We drank wine, saw the sights, did a ghost tour and shopped.

The weird event occured one afternoon after some sightseeing. We went to this cute little restaurant called Poogan’s Porch. They had a large sun room in the back of the converted house where we were seated next to a full wall of windows.

We were chatting and figuring out what we wanted to order when out of the corner of my eye I saw a large black thing to my right. It was outside, next to the church, which sat in the lot behind the restaurant. I swiveled my head and did one of those Looney Tunes double-takes.

Standing in broad daylight in the churchyard was a seven-foot tall angel. Only this one wasn’t your typical cherubim dressed in white with a little golden halo. No, this creature was dressed in a black leather kilt-like thingie, had long sooty hair and large wings made with glossy black feathers. He was also shirtless. And from the look of him, the afterlife must be full of Nautilus equipment.

He looked kind of like this picture, except better in person. Also without the tree stumps for legs.

It took me about a nanosecond to take all this in before alerting my friends we had a dark angel in our midst. It didn’t take long to figure out it wasn’t my imagination playing tricks on me again. Women throughout the resturant had left their seats to salivate on the glass separating us from the man in black. The photographer with the dark angel was my second clue that Satan wasn’t in Charleston that day.

I’m not sure if it was the surreal experience of seeing something so unexpected or the fact this guy was a total hottie that burned the experience in my memory. All I know is I think about him from time to time. Our group of gals dubbed him Hottie Dark Angel. Someone took a picture, which I would pay money to get my hands on.

The reason I’m bringing this up now is I was standing in my kitchen the other day thinking about my new book idea. Just as I swiped the counters a final time with my sponge, the image of Hottie Dark Angel popped in my head. Instantly, I knew this guy had to be in my book.

I was so sure of it that I looked up one of my old friends from that trip, whom I have not spoken to in three years and emailed her asking if she had his picture. Unfortunately she doesn’t, but it was good to find an old friend.

My point in all this is that you never know when something you file away might come in handy for a story. I can’t explain it, but that sunny day in Charleston, I knew I was meant to see the HDA. Now I know why.

So, my friends, pay attention. You never know when some totally random thing might spark new life into a story idea. That one trip to Charleston has given me ideas for other stories–the ghost walk alone was quite enlightening.

And if anyone knows a male model who was posing as a hottie demon for a photo shoot in Charleston in October of 2001, email me.

A Star is Born

Someone emailed me the following the other day.

Chapter 2 The Words You Write
“A story is words strung onto paper.”

‚”Most writers paragraph for effect, punctuate on impulse and let split
infinitives and comma splices fall where they may. Omnivorous reading
substitutes for systematic study. Syntactic nomenclature is a thing they
learn only if, somehow trapped into teaching others the craft, they find
themselves in need of terms to describe the errors of their students.
None of which in any wise prevents their writing adequate or better than
adequate copy.
In other words, this is a business in which the star performers play by ear, and who cares? So long as a man’s writing is itself clear and accurate and specific, no holds are barred. And anyone who needs instruction in the traffic laws of the English language has wandered into the wrong field.
Yet words are vital to a writer, no matter how askance he looks at grammar.
Some work for him; some against him. And some just clutter up the
Specifically, it’s desirable that you learn three things:
1. How to choose the right words.
2. How to make copy vivid.
3. How to keep meaning clear.”

While the entire quote struck a chord with me, I found the highlighted section very interesting.

There is an old debate about whether one can be taught to write. I fall into the school of thought that certain people just have a natural apptitude for writing. While they made need instruction about how to utilize the tools of the craft, an inherent talent for stringing words together exists for people who excel at writing. Others, born without this aptitude, can learn the tools as well, but their ability to make words sing is limited.

It’s like this in many pursuits-athletes, musicians, artists, accountants, lawyers, etc. We are all better at certain things. It doesn’t mean someone can not learn scales or how to write a legal brief with a certain level of proficiency, but I maintain they are not likely to become stars in their profession.

We’ve all known writers who despite years of practice, classes, and dedication to writing still never quite get it. Their writing may improve but for some reason they continue to miss the mark. This does not mean they should quit. After all, we’ve all also read published books by people like this. On the other hand, countless talented writers never get published. That’s a debate for another day, however.

The question of the day is this: Can hard work alone make one a great writer? Or is inherent ability required to stand out of the crowd? Also, how is talent quantified in such a subjective field?

Monkey Mind

Yesterday, I was listening to a workshop on tape by the very wise Natalie Goldberg. She is the author of Writing Down the Bones and a respected teacher of writing.

Her mantra is daily writing practice. Ten minutes a day and your hand doesn’t stop moving. There’s no editing or crossing out. Anything goes.

Natalie is a student of Zen Buddhism and her voice is very soothing. There’s something about listening to her talk that seems very spiritual. But most important she understands writers and the challenges of what she calls the Monkey Mind.

This idea of practicing writing intrigues me. I always think that it’s the pages I produce on my books that is the practice. Yet Goldberg makes an analogy to professional sports. The Superbowl game is the result of hours of practice for the men of the gridiron. Thus, writing practice should come before the book. In fact, she recommends a full year of practice before one tackles an actual story.

Does anyone do this? Write for practice instead of publication? I used to write essays during college, my own version of writing practice. It cleared my head of the static. But at that time, I did not think of myself as a writer. It was just a means of sorting through my life. I lost that practice long before I began pursuing writing as a vocation.

If you haven’t read Writing Down the Bones, I highly recommend it. Although, I’m sure most of you have. But did you follow Goldberg’s advice? Do you practice?

Don’t Make Me Taunt You a Second Time

First, to all of those who told me I was wrong, HAHAHAHA! HA!

Jeffrey won!!

For those who have no idea what I’m talking about, the season finale of Project Runway was last night. The dark horse, the designer everyone loved to hate, won. Yipeee! I was right. From now on you will all know better than to question my judgment.

Second, I got an interesting email yesterday. It seems someone at Xlibris has found Jaye’s Blahg. And boy do they have a deal for me.


Let me clarify a few things, Xlibris spammer. First, I do not spend countless hours writing so I can pay my own money to get published. And no, you’ll never convince me that paying anyone to publish my words will eventually lead to someone in New York wanting to give me a contract. In addition, telling me that the traditional method of getting published is too hard is so not the sway me. I gave birth to a twelve-pound kid. You think a few rejections scare me? You just waved a red flag at the bull.

Anyone else have anything fun to share?