#OLIVIAJISPUBLISHED | Life Announcement

"Any good writer is going to be well-received and also not be well-received; that's how you know you're a great writer," -Karrine Steffans

Is this even a life announcement at this point? You must have been living under a rock if you haven't heard about #OliviaJisPublished!  Read about A Cactus In the Valley here!

follow me on instagram @olivia.j.the.wordshaker

But yes, my novel is published and is now available for purchase!

It is available for in-person purchase September 10th, and then on Amazon subsequently - link coming soon!

ESSENTIAL INFORMATION: 

Release Date: September 10th, 2017Price: $13.99

Disclaimer: this book is self-published, and even though I've had many people proofread this book, it's still not perfect, and I guess I have to be okay that it's never going to be perfect. 

So, this is it, I guess. I'm beyond excited to share this book with you guys, and truthfully, I'm glad to be done with this process and this story as a whole. 

I love you all, and I appreciate every single person who purchases my book, even if you don't read it because I understand that not everyone is a reader. But I appreciate it still, because it means you still want to support me in my journey, in my passions, and, ultimately, in my career choice. 

Even though my book is now out, I won't stop talking about #OliviaJisPublished, just so I can still get the word out, and because I might have more to say. 

Conclusively, I am forever grateful and am unbelievably excited. This truly has been a labor of love, and I hope it pays off. 

~The WordShaker

Some Thoughts Before Ending the #OliviaJisPublished Journey...

"Writers are desperate people, and when they stop being desperate, they stop being writers," -Charles Bukowski

I'm not sure why I'm attempting on amassing my thoughts this late in the game. I suppose because now, it's become real. 

25/75 copies. 

But what I can concur is that I'm afraid.  I'm afraid of what people will think when they read it. I'm afraid that the story won't come off the way I intended it to. 

I'm scared because I think I've lost sight of why I'm doing this in the first place. I'm scared because I know this story will never be perfect, and I hate that. 

I'm worried about leaving this story behind. It was such an integral part of my high school career, and I suppose, by finishing this off, I'm putting the period on high school too. I have to move on, to other projects. 

On the flip side, this has been a massive learning experience. Now I know that I can publish a book! I know I can do it, not for others, but for myself. I had to do pretty much everything by myself, and, since I'm going into this career field, I ought to know this sooner or later. I'm eternally grateful for this opportunity and this amazing - yet gruelingly difficult - journey.

But, in the end, thank you, Sonoran desert, for giving me a place to blossom, and thank you, Terra and Wyatt, for helping me find myself. 

Not sure what else to say. I'm humbled and scared all at the same time. All glory be to Christ. 

~The WordShaker

WHY I'm Publishing my Novel | #OliviaJisPublished

"A writer is simply a photographer of thoughts," -Brandon Trean

"But Olivia, you want to publish your book because you want people to read it, duh!"

Well, kind of. 

It's a bit more complicated than that. 

Sure, I want people to read A Cactus In the Valley, and enjoy it as much as I do. 

But my original intent in seeking out self-publishing was to put a period on A Cactus In the Valley. As you know, many other ideas have been boiling on the back-burner, but A Cactus In the Valley was still open, in progress. By publishing it, by finally compiling an official manuscript and having copies, it will be done. I can finally let go of it and move on to my next project. 

So, I've been working through the last draft, until I come to a point that I'm happy with it. And I can finally say that I am, despite it never being perfect. It never will be perfect. 

But hell, this was a long time coming, and I hate to say that I'll be glad when I can stop editing and formatting and such and begin creating again.

But at this point, I'm making the finishing touches on the interior, and have already received a few proof copies. When I get back to school, my goal is to have the cover completed by the end of August, so there's plenty of time to order final proofs and the first print run of 50 copies during September.

This is real, and in the coming months, #OliviaJisPublished will be everywhere....

~The WordShaker

On Not Feeling Good Enough | #OliviaJisPublished

"Don't write until it's perfect, write until it's right," -Ryan Reudell

Yes, you read that right. #OliviaJisPublished 

However, this isn't what this blog post is about. More on that hashtag later, because this is only the first of many posts about this wonderful topic. ;)

I've been hard at work on the last draft of A Cactus In the Valley, my work-in-progress. Read about that here. 

However, as I edit and format and edit some more, I always get worried that it's never enough. 

That my work - including my art - will just get lost in the noise of the never-ending stream of content that is the internet (and the publishing industry). 

That no matter how much work I put into my craft, that it will never be up to the standard that I want it to be. 

That no matter how good my work is, no matter how much I advertise and push people to look at my stuff and read my books, I still won't be able to reach people. 

I'm not sure that this post has a point, other than to get the dialogue started for #OliviaJisPublished. And to let out my feelings, as per usual. 

Follow me on Instagram, @olivia.j.the.wordshaker and Wattpad @oliviajthewordshaker if you're feeling adventurous. 

~The WordShaker

Success as a Writer | Olivia J

"Writing is a dangerous profession. There's no telling what hole you may rip in society's carefully woven master narrative," -Danielle Orner

Recently, I've revived some of my wonderful beta readers. Yesterday, one of them finally finished my novel, way ahead of time.

One of her comments at the end of the last chapter was:

"Honestly, it's been a while since I got emotionally invested in a story like I did with this one. You are a brilliant writer, and I'm so excited to see where you go with this beautiful work of art. When you're a famous author someday, I will have the privilege of being one of your biggest fans. This story was so powerful and full of messages that aren't easy to read, but need to be shared. Thank you for pouring your heart and soul into this book. I am confident it and all of your writing  will go on to inspire people for generations to come."

This comment almost made me cry. Nothing - and I mean nothing. No paycheck, no award, nothing - can compare to the feeling that your reader got it. They fully understood what you were trying to convey, and it impacted them.

This is true success as a writer. Many people think when I say I want to be an author, they think I want to be the next Stephen King or J.K. Rowling. And truthfully, it would be nice, but the fame and the money isn't what it's all about. 

And sure, being a household name means more people will buy and read your books, which will make the story have a larger impact in numbers, but true success as a writer isn't determined by the number of copies you sell, or how much money you make. 

It's determined by the souls you touch and the lives you change. This cannot be quantifiably measured, by any statistic, any paycheck. It's the impact you make on others, and yourself, that matters. 

Now, writers, go get people to read your work - because the most satisfying thing is knowing your art -the very thing that helped you heal your heart and soul - reached across the great human divide and healed someone else's. 

~The WordShaker

My WIP: A Cactus In the Valley

"As a writer, you ask yourself to dream while awake," -Aimee Bender

I'm going to do a little bit of self-promotion and give you all a preview of my book. I am going to do this in a list/category format so you can get the whole overview.

This story is Copyright 2015 by Olivia J - all rights reserved.

Title: A Cactus In the Valley

Plot in One Sentence: Two teens are stranded via a plane crash in the middle of the desert and have to survive together.

Genres: young adult fiction, contemporary fiction, action/adventure, drama

Back Cover Synopsis: When withdrawn Terra Lombardi wakes up in a smoking airplane in the middle of the remote Arizona desert, she realizes the only other survivor is the arrogant Wyatt Hartman.

Clouded with the uncertainty of how they crashed, the two strangers head west in pursuit of civilization. Amidst the environment and dangerous animals against them, they must band together to survive and even thrive in the rocky, sun-drenched Southwest. However, the elements force them to confront their inner demons.

Told through dual points-of-view and intermittent flashbacks, teenagers Wyatt and Terra brave the sun and sand alone. But it is through the hardest times in which we grow the most.

~

WARNING: There is some suggestive content in this book. Language, violence, emotional intensity, an instance of rape and drug use is included in this book.

Contact me at oliviajthewordshaker@gmail.com if you are interested in purchasing this novel - coming this September!

Follow me on Instagram at @olivia.j.the.wordshaker

~The WordShaker

Worship Camp and Short Stories

A story is like something you wind out of yourself. Like a spider, it is a web you weave, and you love your story like a child," -Katherine Anne Porter

This week, I spent 30 hours with a hodgepodge of church kids, ages from 8 to 17, at my church's Worship Camp. There was a lot of highs, lows, tears, and laughs, but there were also scavenger hunts, crazy hairstyles with shaving cream, water wars, first-time tie-dyeing, Okay, maybe I didn't learn how to worship like a pro - nothing groundbreaking happened.  (But then again, nothing in my life ever happens in a groundbreaking fashion.) However, I did learn a few things. I learned that God is growing me in the music department, since I have flourished in writing and visual art. I was definitely dragged out of my comfort zone kicking and screaming.

Here is what I wrote, edited, and . . .  did not preform on Friday morning.  The youth leader read it, and told me that it was too mature for the younger kids and wasn't fitting for the theme - which basically translates to 'Sorry, our church cannot handle your awesomeness.' However, she did introduce me to Teen Ink, which I am thinking about getting involved in. This little short story doesn't really have a title, so enjoy!

Dear Listeners, 

You're probably only reading this because I'm making you. Or because I'm telling you.  But a forewarning.  Don't expect this to be some kind of touching, moving story full of truth and heart. Because, well, it's not.  If you cry, don't say I didn't warn you. This is the story of how one person ruined my entire life. 

I was an . . . interesting teenager.  I still am. On the outside, I was rough. I had everything I needed, but I didn't care. I had more than enough, but I choose to waste it with drugs, exploit it with other men, and soil it and everything around me black with my own malice. I ran with the wrong crowd, did all of the wrong things, etc. You know, classic, stereotypical bad girl. Now, hold that image in your mind: Everything that you think of, I was probably it. 

But my parents.  My parents . . . I have an odd relationship with them.  They've kind of always just been there, and I've always been like them.  To be dreadfully blunt, I've taken on my father's salty mouth and smoking habit, and from my mother I received bitter apathy and a knack for manipulation. I believe most of what they tell me, even though we fight about everything from the shade of off-white so-and-so painted their door to what's the best kind of breakfast cereal. I hate them, but I can't get rid of them. 

But one day, everything changed.  Now, don't look at me like that.  Yes, it's a cliche, but that's the way it happened. 

I was sitting on my front porch, preparing to light a cigarette when a truck pulled into the empty house across the street - abandoned and run down.  No one had lived there for years, for as long as I could remember.  But a big U-Haul van was driving in nonetheless. 

Out stepped a boy, about my age, and his parents.  I watched them take a few things out of the cabin of the truck, then pause.  I narrowed my eyes.  Obviously a good, well-off family. Tight-laced, probably.   Rich. Why they were moving here, who knows.  Not my problem . . . 

Or so I thought. 

Just as I was about to get up and go back inside to my hell-hole of a life, the boy started strolling across the street . . . towards me. Me, of all people.  And what the hell did he want anyways? 

He told me that his name was Joshua.  I wasn't ready to tell him my name yet, but he extended a hand, and I took it.  He pulled me up and shook my hand.  I hadn't had anyone shake my hand in a long time.  It felt, odd, in a satisfying way that I hadn't felt in a while.  Good is the only word I can find to accurately describe it. 

I really didn't want to make conversation, so I didn't.  He, however, was as bubbly as a shaken up can of soda.  Unfortunately, we ended up talking for hours as his family moved into the house across the street. He even gave me his phone number, but I rejected it because, gosh, he was just across the street anyways.
The next day, after school, he came over. I ripped open the door, confused. I asked him what are you doing here? 

He replied with that he's just here to talk. 

When I asked him what about, he shrugged and just said 'stuff'. 

Reluctantly, I invited him into my house.  Not the nicest place, but too bad. He would just have to deal with it. 

We sat on my bed together, silent. Then he asked me about myself. 

Myself? I questioned.  There's nothing to tell. 

When I refused, he started talking about himself. 

He recounted his entire life to me, about being born when his parents weren't married, and, he was born on a couch, of all places. 

But then we got to talking about the deep stuff.  Like, the really deep stuff. He asked me what I thought about life, death, God, people.  Anything and everything you could think of.  He also gave me his insight on these things.  Nine times out of ten, we disagreed, but it was amiable.  Mostly because his answers confused me.  They were gritty and real, but optimistic for the most part.  Not convoluted, as he seemed to me. Real was the descriptor I finally decided on. 

Eventually, that day, he had to go back home.  As I walked him out, our conversation was tumbling around in my head, and something odd rises up in me, like those painful pimples that you can feel underneath the surface of the skin, but they haven't come to a head yet.  Yeah, that's how I felt. 

Once he was out of earshot, I sighed. Despite my better judgement, I liked Joshua, in more ways than one. 

Joshua and his insight came back every day for two weeks. After school, before school, during my work hours.  He was even cutting into time with my friends.  I could obviously tell that he did not approve of the things I was doing with my spare time, but he did something unexpected.  He let me know that he disagreed with me, but he wasn't intrusive or arrogant or hateful.  He was . . . loving.  

Which, at the time, confused the heck out of me. 

Soon enough, I started recording our conversations. 

I remember one thing about those recordings. They were a lifesaver. One night, I remember, my parents, who rarely talked anyways, were fighting.  Screaming and shouting and throwing and crying and hitting, and oh my God.  Oh, my God. 

The clearest memory of that night was me, sitting there, curled up with my back to the door, and reaching for the file with all of those recordings on there.  I pressed one, hoping that just to hear Joshua's voice, I'd feel better. 

It was him, talking about trust and rest. "You know, you can always come to me when things are hard, and I'll help you.  I'll talk to you, I'll listen, I'll take everything I can from you. For I don't ask for anything in return.  I promise I won't put anything on you." 

I click the device off before I can hear my reply. 

* 

Time passes.  Joshua and I spend more time together.  I don't however, notice my life changing that much, other than spending time with him.  I would still go out and party with my friends.  I would still use drugs in pathetic solitude.  Etc, etc, blah blah.  You don't want to hear about my pathetic life. 

But one night, my friends and I, we were out on the town - drunk. After a long night, I was irritable and susceptible to impulsiveness.   Meaning, I am what people call 'an angry drunk.' 

Someone, I forget who, had the idea to get a midnight snack at the local gas station.  We followed, stumbling along like lost puppies on drugs. 

One, lazy teenager with bright red hair sat at the counter, biting his nails. We snuck around corners, shoving bags of chips into our baggy sweatshirts and candy bars into our pockets. I remember grabbing a pack of gum off of a shelf when the fluorescent lights  shone off of a familiar face at the gas station.  It was Joshua, filling up his car. 

In retrospect, the whole endeavor was the stupidest thing I've ever done. 

By the end of our rampage, we had a total of 300$ worth of stuff between the four of us.  But listen to this, after that, we just walked out.  No joke, we got in a single file line and walked out of the gas station. Thinking about it now, I want to punch myself in the face. 

Of course, the nerdy cashier chased us out of the store and started shouting at us in the night.  My friends just laughed and swore and threw around obscene gestures. 

Unfortunately, I was the last one out of the store, so I was closer to the cashier when he stormed out. 

However, the second he laid a finger on me, I whipped around and punched him in the face. 

I saw him hit the ground with astounding clarity, and everything was pushed away as my friends ran off into the night, hooting and shouting with drunken glee. The boy's skull cracked like an eggshell against the sidewalk, blood pooling out, staining the concrete with it's toxicity.  

Every ounce of my dignity was stripped away as I turned to face Joshua.  He looked at me with a sharpness in his eyes. Dull and blunt, like a punch to the stomach, because his face was stricken with utter disappointment.  The sadness turned his eyes a deep blue, drowning my heart. 

I turned away and left him in the buzzing fluorescent lights and the cold night air, running home and tossing my selfish indulgences aside. 

Joshua called the police.  The teenage boy with the obnoxious red hair was fine, by the way. They arrested Joshua, even though he told the absolute truth. Somehow, he was convicted of our drunken ordeal, charged with theft, assault, and underage alcohol use. 

I haven't seen Joshua since that night. Despite how short our relationship was, despite how much we disagreed, I still missed him.  I missed him with a burning in my heart, like I had taken a drill to my chest. Everywhere, I saw him. I saw him in the way that the trees danced, reminding me of the way that he would move his body to his favorite song.  I saw him in a child's eyes, and how his eyes would always glow when he smiled. I saw him in the way that the wind whispered to me, mysterious and beautiful.  I actually saw him a few times, in similar people's faces, and I would chase after them or call out his name, but he was never really there. 

But I was wrong.  I realized that he was really there.  I still had the memories, as sharp as a pencil on the first day of school.  I had the recordings.  I had pictures.  But for now, I mourn and actively wait joyfully, because Joshua may not be present, he's also not absent. 

Joshua will eventually be released, and I absolutely cannot wait for the day when the Groom will get to meet his Bride.

Copyright 2015 Olivia J, The WordShaker

God bless,

~The WordShaker