Happy Birthday Bo’sun!

 

 

Yup Yup! It is the Bo’sun’s birthday today and a special day it is! The last day of the year is currently upon us and it’s time to celebrate another year past and rush in the new one to make more great memories and lasting friendships.

 

And for every New Year celebration, you need a little chocolate to

bring love and happiness into full circle. Not to mention a little eye candy to get the blood flowing. Good for creativity and he certain inspires a little creativity in me. I got him special just for you Bo'sun. Remember moderation makes for a good time, overindulgance gets you into trouble.

 

Nevermind, you're a pirate. The more the merrier I say!

 

What are your New Year's plans (if any)? Do you enjoy writing or reading party scenes?

 

 

 

PS. BTW, Ter, in case you missed it above- HAPPPY BIRTHDAY!!! I hope it's a great one!

Around June, I felt a twinge of guilt, but I tamped it down, being I’m a practiced rationalizer when it comes to nebulous things like “shame” and “slacker.” The fact it had been a year since I technically finished Girl on a Grecian Urn, and I had neither finished the revisions nor completed a new manuscript didn’t pang me too long. At a time.

 

I mean, it panged me every day. I’d go to bed, thinking, you haven’t written. If you had done this or so, I bet you could have written two pages at least. I thought about writing; but that never manifests itself into words on the page like you think it would. I reassured myself that I still had six months to get it in gear. I would surely have the revisions done by November so I could send the revised manuscript to the Golden Heart.

 

Between planning to write and non-writing, I sent out queries. I believed if someone asked for the book, then that would inspire me to finish the revisions for the last four chapters. I was fishing for motivation (in myself and my characters) like I was Ishmael after a freaking whale. Neither of us found any.

 

In September, my procrastination took a new tact. I would work on other aspects of my life instead. The Virginia Woolf procrastination epiphany. I wasn’t writing my magnum opus because I didn’t have a room to write in. All by myself. Away from awful, awful distractions like handsome men who wanted to lure me to bed with hot sex…and the internet. Call me Odysseus, stuck on this pain-staking journey of writing: shoals, hurricanes, doldrums, hot sex, you name it—I had a writer’s equivalent for it. I was in a leaky boat, sailing nowhere fast.

 

I consoled myself that the sex and the internet were research. I had three months to get it all done; plus I could totally do that NaNo thing.

 

So after three months of researching, I’m now staring at my calendar in stark disbelief. Holy hell, it’s December 30^th and I still haven’t finished the revisions on that blasted novel. Nor have I finished a new manuscript! Hell, I couldn’t even tell you the idea for the new manuscript. I keep coming up with new ideas, but none of them want to stick to the wall. They’re all…blech.  

 

I’m beginning to feel like one of those locusts who only mates every seven years. Well, I used to feel that way about my sex life too, but now I think it only applies to my writing. I haven’t found a locust I’m willing to crawl out of the woodwork for. In the meantime, I’d rather sleep until something brilliant comes to me. (Napping is my number one favorite pastime. Sometimes it’s number two, but…well, never mind.)

 

So what’s a sleepy, uninspired, unmotivated, and undone pirate to do? Well, lucky for me, this is the time of year for resolutions. Which is to say, I’ve found another way to procrastinate. (And I need to add: generally speaking, we all know resolutions don’t usually stick for long. There are one-night stands that last longer than most.) So how do I word my resolution in such a way that it doesn’t dissolve faster than a Britney Spears’ marriage? What do you do to put your words into actions? You know, besides the obvious action of: butt in chair, hands on keyboard? No, no, too obvious.

 

Then Janga did it for me. We were discussing Resolutions yesterday; and Janga listed out what resolutions she was going to implement in the next year. But she didn’t leave it at just the resolution: she broke the resolution into two or three smaller attainable goals or solutions. Simple things anyone could do to accomplish the Herculean task of overcoming procrastination.  Then she capped the whole thing with a theme mantra: DISCIPLINE. All it takes to accomplish any of the small attainable tasks is discipline. Which clearly is the antithesis of procrastination.

 

Besides a good mantra clears your mind as you set into action into one of those smaller, clear goals. So my resolution this year is to adopt Janga’s resolutions (and concrete actions to attain resolutions and her mantra) as my own so as to not find myself on December 30, 2009, going “Holy sh*t, have I literally screwed around all year again?” (Okay, that might not be a totally wasted year in my opinion, but…I should vary it a little.) Besides, isn't stealing from your friends the highest form of flattery? Or laziness? I'm unsure which. Maybe both.

 

Until I figure it out (this head cold is the pits), I will add: Janga's got this figured out. I'm going to try to be a bit more like Janga this year. (And if she doesn't conform strictly to her new disciplined regime, then I'll go with the "do as I say, not as I do" approach. Whether she follows her own advice or not, it's still brilliant.)

 

Who do you admire and wish to emulate more this year—and why? What small, concrete ways will you do to accomplish your resolutions? What’s your favorite mantra/motto?

With the New Year right around the corner, it’s that time of year when we all start taking a look at what we’re glad we did, what we wish we could have done, what we wish we hadn’t done, and what we plan on doing next year.

I prefer dwelling on the good and hopeful than bemoaning the unattained and disappointing, so in my true Pollyanna fashion, I figured I’d say what I’m particularly thankful for and what I’m hoping to accomplish this coming year.

In case anyone in the free world hadn’t heard, I managed to finish my first MS.  But I’m not just happy about the finishing.  I learned so much about how I write, about my process and my voice, about the ups and downs on the journey, that I don’t even care anymore what happens to my first MS.  I’m just thrilled with the entire experience.

This coming year I’d like to finish two stories.   Now that I know more about myself and my process, I think that’s possible, if I just buckle down.   And I could stand to lose 10-15 lbs (damn holiday baking).

As far as personal stuff, my baby turned two, my hubby got promoted, and I managed to remain sane the entire year through, with only a few meltdowns and fits of hysteria on record.  (I am a stay at home mom so I’m alone a lot, therefore there are probably many more meltdowns and fits of hysteria that occurred that no one witnessed but if no one sees it happen, it remains conjecture and speculation, I say.)

I hope this year brings another year of health and prosperity for those I adore and for you too, gentle readers, er, pirates.  May you seize your booty and plunder where you may.

What events are you proud of this past year and what do you hope to accomplish?  Any new years resolutions you wanna share?   I hear public shame is a good motivator.

 

From all of us here at RWR, we wish you the very best this Christmas.  Hope your day is filled with family, friends, food, and fun!

[ship railing twined with tinsel and fat Christmas lights; decorated Christmas tree with a Captain Jack Sparrow action figure tied to the top as the “angel” in the Crow’s Nest; a snow-machine on the fo’c’sle, launching fake snow onto the main decks and the crew, which most keep dusting from their costumes with various degrees of hostility. Hellion, dressed in an Elf costume and an ostentatious number of jingle bells, is handing out crib sheets to everyone.]

Terri: [taking sheet, tugging at short skirt which could double as a napkin] You know, when you did this crap on the Vagabonds, you didn’t make them wear embarrassing outfits.

Hellion: Yes, I did.

Tiffany: She really did.

Terri: Tiffany?

Tiffany: [tugging at her skirt, but to show off her belly ring] Yeah, she complains about my Nick Cave, but come Christmas, she wants my Soprano in her choir.

Ely: [fluffing hair and scarf] And mine!

Hellion: [sheepish shrugging] Caroling is more fun in large groups. Kris? Mags? Come on out! You look adorable, you do!

[Maggie and Kris emerge from below deck, looking the supreme Madonnas of Cool, elf outfits, glittery silver scarfs and sunglasses. Hellion hands them their sheets.]

Marnee: [bouncing up] I do like the outfits, but the heels are a bit much. These are not every efficient to chase toddlers in.

Ely: [winking] No, but they’re perfect for making you slow enough to be chased. [blows kiss at one of the crew hands who makes a ‘call me’ gesture]

Sin: [emerging from the Crow’s Nest, though no one can figure out how since there is a tree there; everyone stares at her elf outfit which is completely black, with no tinsel or bells. Hellion stares at her] What? I’m wearing it.

Hellion: I gave you a RED outfit.

Sin: This was hell to dye, let me tell you. Ninjas don’t wear red outfits, Hellie. I’ve told you that.

Hellion: And where are the jingle bells?

Sin: Nor do super-secret agent spies wear bells. Don’t you read spy books?

Hellion: [sighing] I should just be happy you’re wearing it at all.

Sin: Atta girl.

Hellion: Okay, ladies, a one, a one, two….

Crew & Vixens:

I don't want a lot for Christmas
There is just one thing I need
I don't care about the presents
Underneath the Christmas tree
I just want him for my own
More than he could ever know
Santa, make my wish come true...
All I want for Christmas is
Hugh…

[Hugh Jackman bursts out of a rum keg, wearing a Santa hat and not much else, though the rum keg does keep this all PG-13.]

Hellion: [sashaying]

I don't want a lot for Christmas
There is just one thing I need
(and I) Don't care about the presents
Underneath the Christmas tree
I don't need to hang my stocking
Above my hammock on the deck
(ahhh) All I need is hot Hugh Jackman,
Lathered up, all soapy wet
I just want him for my own
More than he could ever know
Make my wish come true
All I want for Christmas is Hugh... [Hellion spreads arms wide, belting]

[Captain Jack Sparrow staggers out onto the deck, admires Hellion, does a double-take at Hugh]

Hugh: Good-day, mate.

Jack: Where are your clothes?

Hugh: I’m not sure. I just woke up like this.

Jack: [grunting] That’s happened to me more times than I care to recall. [looking about] Hellie, baby, when is my part?

Hellion: [sheepish look] Later, baby. I told you, at rehearsal, after the Hugh song. [muttering] Like wayyyy later.

Jack: There was a rehearsal?

Crew & Vixens: There was a rehearsal?

[music replays cue. Replays cue again.]

Sin: Sh*t, damn, f*ck. I missed the cue. [plays cue again, Sin sings]

Oh I won't ask for much this Christmas
I won't even wish for rum
I'm just gonna keep on waiting
Right here, till my feet go numb;
I won't make a list and send it
With my requests for all things Twilight
Vampires can’t hold a candle
To Hugh’s soapy, chesty sight
'Cause I just want him here tonight
Holding on to me so tight
What more can I do
Baby all I want for Christmas is…Edward!

Hellion: That is not what it says!

Sin: I improved it.

Hellion: You did not!

Sin: Did too!

Jack: Ladies, ladies, ladies…I’m here. You can stop singing the song now. [sniffs, glances over at the still grinning Hugh] And I think you need to find your clothes.

[Tiffany, Ely, Kris and Maggie run over to the barrel]

Tiffany: I can help him. I think I know where he might have left them.

Kris: I think I might have a better idea of where he left them, Tiff.

Ely: [stroking a fingertip down Hugh’s chest] I’m good at finding things, Hugh….

Maggie: This goes to show how much you three know what to do with a naked man. Hugh, why don’t you come with me? You, as always, are dressed perfectly for the occasion.

[Vixens whisk Hugh Jackman below decks. A new glance on the ship shows Sin is hanging off the side railing, calling, “Edward? Are you there?”; Terri is trying to glue an extension to her short skirt; and Marnee has exchanged her heels for tennis shoes.]

Hellion: [music cues and Hellion begins striding across the ship with grand gestures]

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas
Here upon the ship;
Take a look at the carronades, those tinsely grenades,
What Man-o-War could be more prettily equipped?
It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas,
Toys for every Ninja Spy,

[Sin holds up three Ninja stars in one hand and a Glock in the other]

But the prettiest sight to see is the rum casks that will be
Stacked up to the sky.

Jack: There’s more rum? Excellent. I’m out. [uncorking a cask and refilling his bottle]

Sin: [sticks Glock at her back holster, starts juggling stars]

A pair of CFM boots and a pistol that shoots
Is the wish of our Captain Hellie;
Terri wants Big Ben, Lisa wants a variety of men,
And Marnee wants cologne to make her husband smelly.

Jack: And we all want rum balls for our bellies! Bugger, are they gone too?

Lisa, Marnee, & Terri: [in harmony]

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas
Here upon the ship;
There's a tree in the Crow’s Nest high, and there’s plenty of pumpkin pie,
Piled with plenty of that canned whip

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas;
Soon the singing will start,
And the thing that will make us sing is the jolly our ‘lubbers bring
And those little delightful rum tarts…

Hellion: Has anyone got any rum tarts? I mean, is anyone baking on this ship this year? I’m hungry….

Jack: [finishing the rum in his bottle] We’re out of rum tarts too? What is going on this ship? Stress-eating? Is it the holidays? Are you worried about what to buy me, my little love muffin? [wiggles fingers under Hellion’s chin]

Hellion: The economy. Pirating has been way down.

Terri: Oh, like you know anything about the economy. Why don’t you have some more rum? You’re a lot more coherent about the economy when you’re trashed.

Hellion: No, I’m not.

Terri: Okay, you’re not. But you are more optimistic…and well, fun, and I’ll take that. [pouring rum for Hellion] Now are we done butchering Christmas songs yet?

Hellion: Not quite. I have a special guest for the finale.

Jack: Yes! I have the finale?

Hellion: No, Ranger has the finale. [Jack pouts, Hellion blows kiss] We have a finale later.

Jack: Later? You mean… [waves a hand to the cabin]

Hellion: [nods]

Jack: [grinning] Pirate queen and naughty first mate who has to swab the deck….

Terri: Ewww, do we have to hear this? Really?

Hellion: [nods at Jack] Later, yes, my naughty first mate.

Jack: Yes!

Hellion: [clearing throat] Okay, Ranger, you can come out now!

[Ranger descends from the Crow’s Nest, again, much to the bafflement of the rest of the crew because no one can figure out how they’re fitting up there. Though we now know what Sin was doing.]

Ranger: [crossing arms] I don’t sing.

Hellion: You lost the bet, buddy. Now just like in rehearsal, one, two, thr….

Crew & Ranger: There was a rehearsal?

Hellion: Just sing it.

Ranger: [glaring at Hellion, sings]

There's something stuck up in the Crow’s Nest
And I don't know what it is,
But it's been there all night long.
Well, I waited up for Stephanie all Christmas night
But she never came and it don't seem right.
And there's something in the Crow’s Nest
And it doesn't make a sound,
But I wish you Merry Christmas.

There's something stuck up in the Crow’s Nest
And I don't know what it is,
But it's been there all week long.
Well, Sin keeps bitchin’ ‘bout the Crow’s Nest pew
And we don't know what we're going to do.
Cause there's something in the Crow’s Nest
And it doesn't move around,
And it's been a week since Christmas.

There's something stuck up in the Crow’s Nest
And I don't know what it is,
But it's been there all month long.
Well, it's jammed up tight in the Looking place
Now the ship smells wonky, should we replace?
That something in the Crow’s Nest,
That doesn't talk at all,
And it's been there since last Christmas.

There's something stuck up in the Crow’s Nest
And I don't know what it is,
But it's been there all year long.
I'll been waiting up for Stephanie like I did last year
But my pirate ninja says, "She's already here."
And she's stuck up in the Crow’s Nest
And she doesn't say a word
And she'll be there every Christmas.
And I'll have her every Christmas.

Hellion: [clapping] Excellent, excellent, brilliant job. Okay, there is no easy way to transition to an ending to this, I noticed that three pages ago, because well, I’m not good at finishing things.

Sin: Yeah, I saw that latch hook rug kit you got when you were in 4th grade. Are you ever going to finish that?

Hellion: No, I’m past my fascination for wall decorations in the shape of 70s-era shag carpeting. Do you know you can still get them? Latch Hook Kits. I know what my nieces are getting for Christmas! Now the question of the day: what do you want for Christmas? (The first do-gooder who says, “Peace on earth and goodwill to all men” is going to be knocked in the head with a rum bottle. I mean, I want a serious answer like, a Wii or Hugh Jackman in a red ribbon.)

When I was little, we had a wood stove that heated the living room. The sounds of wood crackling and popping were soothing as was the smell on a cold morning. But at Christmas, the smell was accentuated by the smell of cedar tree in the living room. In the dark, the Christmas lights shined in multi-colored happiness and sparkled off the TV screen and the wood stove. You could see these lights glowing all the way down the hall and underneath the door. Of course there wasn’t many times when I was a child when the door was shut. You can’t get warm in a closed room. Every night before my parents went to bed, they turned the lights off the Christmas tree.

 

I hated this because you only get a Christmas tree for one month out of the year. I'm not particularly a great sleeper at night so seeing the Christmas tree lights always gave me something to look forward to throughout the night as I'd wake up.

 

There is one particular time I can remember very vividly about Christmas. I wasn’t very old- maybe seven or eight- I asked for Santa to leave the Christmas lights on to show me he was there. I was about to the age when believing in Santa was the cool thing to do anymore and I just wanted a sign that he was around. Sorta like my belief in unicorns. Someday I’m going to find myself a purple unicorn with wings and I’m going to fly away to the moon like a faerie princess with my iridescent wings shimmering in the wind.

 

At first I heard the tree bells. It was a very soft sound, tinkling in the air like impish laughter. We had this Christmas tree cut out with bells on the ends. I put it on the front door every year because I liked the sound of bells ringing. Since we didn’t have a chimney, I knew I could trap Santa this way.

 

I waited, listening for the sound again.

 

I waited. I held my breath in case I was too loud and couldn’t hear them ring again.

 

I heard hooves on the roof. Impatient, stomping in protest. My childish heart leapt in joy. I quietly slipped from my top bunk bed, silent as my feet hit the carpet. My flannel nightgown brushed the floor as I tried to slip on my house shoes. The fumbling was take too long and my impatience made me sneak to the door and peek around the door jam. All was dark. All was calm.

 

Except for the glorious glow coming from the living room. Red and blue and yellow and green! They danced in the darkness as though there was a race to be won!

 

I held back a squeal of joy as I tiptoed towards the living room. My stocking was on the ledge, held by a snowman hook. My name was in glitter, the tree lights sparkled off the stocking. It was filled to the brim with cookies and snack cakes and fruit! I nearly did a backflip with happiness!

 

And the most amazing thing was beyond the doorway into the living room.

 

The tree was lit up more beautiful than I could ever imagine!

 

I flew down the stairs onto the linoleum, the cold not even registering on my bare feet, as I beheld the most beautiful Christmas tree ever known to mankind. The star on top of the tree shimmered with the lights, the ornaments bejeweled. Even the TV screen looked bigger in the lights. Beside the tree was my note to Santa and the plate of empty cookies. On my note was a smiley face, not of my own drawing, but of-

 

Santa!!

 

I sat down on the carpet in front of the Christmas tree and just looked at it. I can’t remember how long I sat there just thinking about all the rotten things I’d done all year long and how Santa could’ve written me a note saying how awful of a kid I’d been, except he chose to draw me a smiley face and turn the lights on.

 

I’ll never forget it. Doesn’t mean I cleaned up my act though. Just made me more conscious to make the clean up a little better and leave no evidence to be found.

 

*grin*

 

Now with a week away from Christmas Eve, I’m struggling to get into the Christmas spirit this year. So help me out. Let’s tell stories of our favorite Christmas memories to remind ourselves what’s most important this time of the year. It’s not our mile long list of stuff to do to make this important for everyone else that counts today, it’s all about us.

 

So be selfish for just a few minutes and share your story. Santa will be watching.

The anticipation is killing you. You’ve waited for this given opportunity to rise and now it is upon you. You pull your sweat shirt hood up over your head and it covers your eyes. Your heart is beating so fast it’s merely a flutter in your chest as you walk down the dark corridor. You can hear your song thrumming through your veins as you reach the end. Your name is being chanted by the masses, the announcer brings you out and the crowd reaches a frenzy point. But you’re focused. You’re solid. There’s nothing in your mind but the ring and your opponent. You’ve sweated and bled for this moment. You’ve visualized your opponent’s face a thousand times on the bag as you beat the hell out of it with your fist and elbows and knees and feet.

 

This moment is yours. This victory… it’s all you can think about.

 

Your opponent is pacing inside the cage, eyes on you. And you return the stare, welcome it. You want them to see what you’re about to do. They should be scared.

 

You step inside and have a Zen moment, where the only thing you can hear is the sound of your own breathing. Out of respect you pound gloves and you cock back and smash into their face. You’re white on rice. Butter on bread. You think of all the times when you were told you’d never win. You’d never be on top.

 

You’d show them.

 

The opponent is strong. Round after round, the opponent takes it to you. Shows you no matter how well you do, you can’t beat them. Still you rail against it, you fight with everything in your being for the win.

 

And when everything you have, you plant a mean right hook into their kidney and then upper cut to the chin. As they start to straighten up, you put your foot into their stomach and with one last final stand, the opponent drops. The referee waves you off and the bell sounds.

 

You look around to your team. The ones who helped you get to where you are right now, holding the championship and beaming with pride and they feel it too. You finally did it. Everything you’ve worked for was all for this moment and there was nothing sweeter than the satisfaction of having it.

 

I watched UFC fights this weekend and if you don’t know anything about the UFC (Ultimate Fighter Championship) it’s Mixed Martial Arts fighting. The whole thing reminds me a lot of the uphill battle you have as a writer to get recognized and published. You have to sacrifice almost everything to get almost nothing in the beginning. You get no respect. You get no love. You fight for everything you’ve got to prove and in the end what do you have left? Sometimes a published book and sometimes a really nice (and sometimes not so nice) rejection letter.

 

Now, I don’t have any experience in this because as everyone knows, I can’t finish. Which is ironic. Don’t ask me why. It’s a gutter topic and I’m trying really hard to mind myself OUT of the gutter this week.

 

So I was curious this week. What do you guys liken writing and finishing to? I mean, I like to liken it to football and UFC fighting, what else can we make references to? And if you’re a reader, what Christmas reads are you looking forward to?

My latest love has been paranormals.  I’ve pretty much read every one I’ve been able to get my hands on of late.  But, with my new reading direction, I’ve started to notice the “fate as explanation” tendency in romance as it’s particularly obvious in a lot of paranormals.

For example, we’ve been talking the Twilight series of late (with the movie out so recently – PS, I saw this weekend and swooned like a 15 year-old). 

SPOILER ALERT, in case there is someone out there who hasn’t read yet.

In Breaking Dawn, Bella is revealed to have a power that turns out to be the exact opposite of Edward’s power.  Oh, perhaps Bella just happened to move to Forks where she just happened to meet Edward who just happened to be able to hear everyone in the entire world’s thoughts save hers.   And perhaps I could assume that Bella just happened to meet Jacob who just happens to love her until it’s clear, once Bella has Nessie, that Jacob was really connected with the parts of Bella that would become Nessie.  And that relationship, with Jacob able to remain immortal and Nessie to be immortal just happened to work out perfectly.

Maybe I could believe all that.  But, I’m probably not supposed to assume that it’s all just coincidence.  Instead, I’m sure I’m supposed to assume that fate was at play, that these folks all found their soul mates, despite unreasonable supernatural complications.

In another example, I’ve been reading JR Ward’s Black Dagger Brotherhood series.  Like many other vampire series the protagonists are super duper old with many of the vampires alive for hundreds of years.   Yet, it seems that all of them are going to find their soul mates within months of one another. 

The explanations are good.  For Twilight, Edward is uncontrollably attracted to Bella’s scent.  In JR Ward’s stuff, Rhage initially falls for Mary’s voice for example.  In numerous other stories, there is something that just draws the hero and heroine together.  Smells, sounds, the feel of them, something.   It’s the chicken or egg debate whether fate caused the attraction or the attraction is because of fate.

Before I sound too sarcastic, I admit to loving both the Twilight books and Ward’s series.  I mean no disrespect.  Both authors are incredibly talented.

I just started wondering about the use of fate, or some manifestation of it in regard to body odor or what have you, as a catalyst for love, for soul mating, in fiction.

I think that to some degree, fate plays a role like this in every book.  We assume that our hero and heroine are supposed to be together.  The glittery hoo-ha, etc.  But in paranormals, the trend seems to be more overt than that.  There are prophecies and visions; there are angels and hardly known scripture passages suggesting the coupling. 

My question to you is does any of that make it harder for you, as a reader, to believe in the happily ever after?  If a couple’s happiness is heavily manipulated by fate, does that make you sigh or frustrate you?  If it’s satisfying, why?   If it’s annoying, why?

I always was a straight-laced, straight A student,
Teacher’s pet and child prodigy,
Though I wasn’t going to get rich throwin’ a basketball,
I had dreams about my future, you see.

So I sat down with momma and daddy,
Who tried to veer me to a teachin’ degree,
But the best advice that I ever got
Was from my best friend, Frances Marie:

Just get you a laptop and learn how to type,
Get a couple characters, make sure they snipe,
Soon you’ll be in be a world where you’re thoroughly hooked,
Find a few good CPs, write a book,
Write a book, write a book.

And all those boys that were too cool to talk to,
They’ll be wondering if you’re as hot as your scenes,
You’ll be infamous in your own hometown,
You’ll be popular with the hottie Marines.

Just get you a laptop and learn how to type,
Get a couple characters, make sure they snipe,
Soon you’ll be in be a world where you’re thoroughly hooked,
Find a few good CPs, write a book,
Write a book, write a book.

Write a book, scrape up some words, get a hook,
Learn POV and how to microwave cook,
Be groped by your honey in every nook.

*Guitar*

Just get you a laptop and learn how to type,
Get a couple characters, make sure they snipe,
Soon you’ll be in be a world where you’re thoroughly hooked,
Find a few good CPs, write a book,
Write a book, write a book.

No need to teach, write a book
Call up some kooks and write a book….

Guess what's been playing on my radio lately? And what dream career did you have as a kid that probably horrified your parents the most? (Vegas Show Girl.) Which one did you have they most wished you'd taken? (Teacher, obviously.) And anyone getting any writing done? (Not nearly as much as Kelly.) It was NaNoWrMo...and though I did not sign up, I know many of you did it.

*Sin climbs the rigging to the crow’s nest with a mega phone* Wenches! Pirates!

 

*Hellion rolls her eyes and pushes Capt’n Jack into a dark corner*

*Terri grabs another glittery hooha and makes eyes at a deck hand*

*Marnee’s flirting with the new hottie of the week, fluttering her eyelashes*

*Readers are merrymaking with our previous hotties and pirates we’ve kidnapped*

 

*Sin yells into the mega phone*  The ship is on fire!

 

*chaos ensues and everyone swings around to give Sin the death eye*

 

*Sin grins* Now that I have your attention…

 

Hellion- You can’t be serious! 

 

Sin- As a deadly eyelash to the back of your neck.

 

*Ter moves closer to Hellion and looks over her shoulder* I told you not to provoke her.

 

*Marn grimaces but tries to smile* She’s only teasing.

 

*Hellie and Ter both roll their eyes* You sleep with one eye open.

 

*Marn grins* Someone has to watch the rations of men.

 

*Sin clears her throat* Yeesh! Pay attention! We have a guest on board!!

 

*Pamela Clare rises from the sea like a siren and steps off her magical wave and onto the deck*

 

*Everyone on deck instantly fan squeals*  Pamela!!

 

Pamela- “My thanks to you for havin’ me back aboard your fine ship. I return wi’ a new tale I’ve penned for you. But I’ll speak nary a word till my cup is brimmin’ wi’ rum…”

 

*Sin flips down from the crow’s nest and sneaks up behind the wenches* Boo!

 

*Ter and Marn squeal*

*Hellie tugs at her shirt sleeves- appearing unruffled*

 

Sin- Since I couldn’t wait to have Pamela Clare back on the ship and tell us another wonderful tale and corrupt her some more, I’ve kidnapped her!

 

*All wenches and pirates nodding by this wonderful feat!*

 

*Pamela saunters by Chance and Chance gives her a glittery hooha*

 

*Pam blinks and looks back at the pirates*  A glittery hooha?

 

*Pirates and Wenches holding up their drinks* Rum soaked goodness.

 

*Pam looks unsure and takes a drink. The smiling grows as she keeps drinking*

 

*Sin claps her hand and pirates and wenches part like the red sea and she steers Pamela to the bow of the ship* Now, let’s get her drunk and wind her up so she’ll spill all her secrets!

 

*Pam gives Sin the look*

 

*Sin whistles and looks innocent. She tips PC’s glass up further* I mean, let’s be nice and ask her questions about her greatness.

 

*Pam drinking her drink and looking suspicious*

 

Let’s get this show on the road! Without further ado- I give you the most wonderful, and bestestest (shut up, Hellion, it’s a word) Pamela Clare (THE author of I-Team series and five historical romances including her newest release UNTAMED!) She’s going to share with us a never before seen excerpt of UNTAMED that was cut in the final edits and a tale from the MacKinnon brothers.

 

****PC****

 

This tale I’ve put to words, ’tis about Morgan MacKinnon, a son of Scotland, exiled wi’ his da’ and mother and two brothers across the ocean sea to America. He was but a striplin’ lad when the Sassenach avenged themselves on the Highlanders for Culloden. They put his grandda’, laird of Clan MacKinnon, on a prison barge and forced his father, Lachlan MacKinnon, to take his wife, Elasaid, and his wee sons Iain, Morgan and Connor and leave Skye wi’ naught but the clothes upon their backs.

 

 They sailed westward beneath a troubled sky to the Colony of New Yorke and then journeyed over land upon roads long and weary until they came to Albany. So you’ve heard of Albany? Aye, ’tis that port on the river won from the Dutch, but you’re puttin’ a kinch in my tale, so sit back and hauld your whist, aye?

 

The brothers watched the wilderness claim first their gentle mother and then their da’. But it could not claim them, for they were young and hale and grew quickly seasoned to this harsh and wild land. In this none aided them more than the Mahican.  Some call them Mohican or Stockbridge Indians, but it matters no’ what you call them. ’Tis one and the same.

 

The Mahican taught the three brothers how to survive.  They showed them the secrets of the hunt so that they might fill their bellies and no’ starve.  They showed them how to move through the long reaches of the forest wi’out losin’ their way or fallin’ into enemy hands.  And they taught them to fight.

 

’Twas Iain as the oldest who first earnt his warrior marks, provin’ to the village that he could survive as a man.  Morgan was next, eager to show that he, too, was a warrior of worth.  And Connor?  Och, that lad!  A stubborn lad and full of piss and vinegar, he was!  (And still is if half the tales about him be true!) He earnt his marks a year after Morgan, and proud of them he was!

 

The three lads might have settled to a life of farmin’ on the land that had been their fathers had Lord William Wentworth no’ spied them comin’ to the aid of whore on the streets of Albany, savin’ her from the knife of a man who’d tupped her but didna wish to pay her fee. Wentworth saw how well the brothers fought, and he kent that ’twas men like them the British needed should they hope to win this war against the French and hold fast to their colonies. He had them placed in shackles and brought before him, and he told them he would see them hanged for murder if they didna take up their rifles and swords and fight for Britain. He tasked them with drummin’ up men who fought as they fought — in the Indian way — and trainin’ them as Rangers. And so the brothers fell under Wentworth’s yoke, chained to a war no’ of their makin’, leaders of a Ranger company.

 

Iain’s story is known to many of you — how he came to find Annie in the wild and save her from a war party of French and Abenaki, who would have slain first her spirit and then her body if he hadnae stopped them. He chanced his life and those of his brothers and his men to spare her that cruel fate — and paid in pain and blood. But though his back was bloodied by the lash at Wentworth’s command, he gained for his sufferin’ a true wife in bonnie, sweet Annie.

 

But Morgan’s tale you have no’ heard. It begins in the spring wi’ the trees well budded out and the birds singin’ in the sky.

 

Morgan bad Iain farewell and led the Rangers northward to Ticonderoga — what the French call Carillon. There they spied upon the French as Wentworth had ordered and made preparations to raid the pier, where a wealth of gunpowder sat in hogsheads, waitin’ to be loaded into French rifles…

 

Morgan and his Rangers waited.  Until the sun had set and sky was darkened by night, they waited. And then they crept by stealth to pier and fired their muskets at those hogsheads, ready to set the pier aflame! But when they fired those fateful shots, they saw that they had been deceived. For ’twas no’ powder in those casks, but sand! ’Twas a trap!

 

Morgan ordered his men to fall back, and fall back they did, but no’ as cowards who drop their swords and flee! Nay, those Rangers returned shot for shot as they drew back amongst the trees, laughin’ at the French canon balls and cryin’ out wi’ the Mahican war cry. (’Tis enough to raise the hair on the back of a dead man’s neck, I’d warrant!)

 

But then Dougie, one of Morgan’s men, fell, pierced through the leg by cruel lead, and Morgan would no’ leave him to be taken captive or killed.  He braved a hail of musket fire, drew Dougie onto his back and ran wi’ him to the safety of the riverbank, sendin’ him on wi’ his men and stayin’ behind to cover the retreat.

 

He didna see the French soldier in the riggin’.  The first shot caught him in the chest near his right shoulder so that he couldna hold his musket.  Still, he raised his pistol and shot that soldier dead.  But then others came and saw him wounded, a second shot piercin’ his thigh and drivin’ him to the ground.

 

His strength spent, he consigned himself to death, savin’ his last words for Connor.

“Beannachd leat!” he cried. Blessings go with you, brother!

 

The last thing he heard afore darkness claimed him was Connor’s anguished cry.

 

My tale doesna end here, for ’tis near death’s door that Morgan meets his angel, Amalie, whose love will save him from the cruelest of fates, even as it tests his loyalty to his brothers and his men.

 

Now, keep the rum flowin’ and I’ll be happy to bide shipboard a wee and chat wi’ you.

 

 

 

 

(The following scene was cut to comply with the publisher’s maximum page count.)

 

April 19, 1759

Ticonderoga

New York frontier

 

Major Morgan MacKinnon lay on his belly, looking down from the summit of Rattlesnake Mountain to the French fort at Ticonderoga below.  He held up his brother Iain’s spying glass—nay, it was now his spying glass—and watched as French soldiers unloaded kegs of gunpowder from the hold of a small ship.  Clearly, Bourlamaque was preparing to defend the fort again.  But if Morgan and his men succeeded in their mission tonight, that powder would never see the inside of a French musket. 

Connor stretched out beside him and spoke in a whisper.  “I cannae look down upon this place without thinkin’ of that bastard Abercrombie and the good men we lost.”

Morgan lowered the spying glass and met his younger brother’s gaze.  “Nor can I, but we didna come here to grieve.”

“Nay.”  Connor’s gaze hardened.  “We’ve come for vengeance.”

Last summer, they’d had no choice but to follow Abercrombie—or Nanny Crombie as the men had called him—to a terrible defeat.  An arrogant bastard who paid no heed to the counsel of mere provincials, Abercrombie had ignored their warnings that Ticonderoga could not be taken without artillery.  He hadn’t believed that the hastily built abatis—the barrier of felled trees and branches that had been piled afore the walls—could hinder trained British Regulars and had ordered his men against the French breastworks with naught but muskets.  Soldiers had become ensnared like rabbits, cut down by French marksmen afore they could reach the walls, victims of their own loyalty and Abercrombie’s overweening pride.

On that terrible day, the Rangers, then under the command of Morgan’s older brother Iain, had taken position to the northwest together with Captain Joseph’s Muhheconneok warriors and had fired endlessly at the French marksmen, trying to dislodge them.  But the French had turned cannon upon them and pounded them into the ground.  So many had been lost—good men and true, men with families, men who’d fought beside them from the beginning. 

’Twas here they’d lost Cam—and dozens more. 

Dead for naught.

When Abercrombie had finally sounded the retreat and the smoke had cleared, the fort had stood just as it had afore.

Never had Morgan seen such senseless death—and at the age of seven-and-twenty he’d seen death enough to sicken a man’s soul.  For nigh on four years, he and his brothers had lived and breathed war.  Forced by that whoreson Wentworth to choose between fighting for Britain or being hanged for a crime they had not committed, they’d taken up arms against the French and their Indian allies, harrying them with ambuscades, seizing their supplies, fighting them in forest and fen.  They’d slain fellow Catholic and heathen alike, burying their own dead along the way.

Morgan had never imagined that he, as a MacKinnon, would fight the French, traditional allies of all Scotsmen still faithful to Church and Crown.  During the Forty-Five, the French had aided the Highland clans, including Morgan’s grandfather—Iain Og MacKinnon, laird of Clan MacKinnon—in their vain struggle to drive the German Protestant from the throne.  Then, after the disastrous defeat at Culloden, the French had given refuge to many an exiled Scot, saving countless lives from the wrath of Cumberland.  Even now France sheltered the rightful heir to the throne, bonnie Charles Stuart.  Every true Scotsman owed the French a debt.

Aye, it was a devil’s bargain that had spared Morgan and his brothers the gallows.  Father Delavay, the French priest Iain had kidnapped last year when he’d had need of a priest to marry Annie, said the sin was not theirs but Wentworth’s.  And yet absolution stuck in Morgan’s throat, for it was not bloody Wentworth who pulled the trigger on his rifle, but he himself.

If anything gave him peace, it was knowing that Iain was now out of the fray, settled on the MacKinnon farm with Annie and little Iain, the firstborn of a new generation of MacKinnons.  Wentworth had released Iain from service, not because he’d wished to spare Iain, but because he was besotted with Annie.  Whatever the cause for Wentworth’s mercy, Morgan was grateful.  He’d never have found the courage to face Annie had Iain been slain in battle—or worse—taken captive.

Morgan saw something move in the dark forest below, heard the slow click of rifles being cocked around him, and felt a warm swell of pride.  He rarely needed to give orders.  Having fought side by side for so long, the Rangers thought and moved as one.  There were no better fighters in the Colonies, no men better suited to the hardship of this war.  ’Twas an honor to lead them, as Iain had done afore him.

Morgan closed the spying glass, raised his rifle, cocked it.  But it was not French scouts who emerged from the green wall of forest, but Captain Joseph’s warriors, eighty men in black and white war paint moving swiftly and silently through the shadows.  They’d been watching the Rangers’ west flank on the long march northward and had gone on to scout out the French sentries while Morgan and his men surveyed the fort from above. 

Morgan lowered his rifle and whispered to Joseph in the Muhheconneok tongue.  “You thrash about like a randy bull moose.  We heard you coming from a league away.   You might have been shot.”

Joseph grinned.  “There is more to fear in a bee’s sting than in your muskets.  My blind granny has better aim.”

Bonded by blood to Morgan and his brothers, Joseph Aupauteunk was the son of a Muhheconneok chief and a fearsome warrior.  He and his father had come to the MacKinnon farm, bringing gifts of dried corn and venison that had helped Morgan and his family survive their first bitter winter of exile in the colonies.  Though Morgan’s mother—God rest her soul—had at first been terrified of Indians, a lasting friendship had grown between Morgan’s family and the Mahicans of Stockbridge.  ’Twas Joseph and his uncles who’d taught Morgan and his brothers to track, to fight, to survive in the wild.  As for what Joseph’s sisters had taught them, Morgan was too much of a gentleman to say—without a gill or two of whisky in his belly.

Morgan switched to English so that those among his men who did not speak Muhheconneok could understand.  “What does Bourlamaque have waitin’ for us?”

It was time to plan their strategy.

 

****PC****

 

Okay, readers and writers of the Romance Writer’s Revenge it’s your turn! Since we’ve kidnapped Pamela Clare and we’re not giving her back no matter what they offer for her, let’s talk to her about craft! Ask, ask, ask! Ask her lots of questions and you have a chance to win the signed book of your choice from among her eight titles!!!

I’ve moved on! 

My first MS has been tucked away for the moment.  I’ll probably come back to it in a month or so, but for now I’ve hit my wall with it.

It’s now officially time for me to find a new love.

I’ve been trolling the creative recesses of my brain. 

It’s strange.  While I was writing my story, I felt like I couldn’t shut down the new ideas.  I would get them while I was driving; I would get them while I was sleeping.  I would write them down and leave them safe and sound in a notebook somewhere like a good dedicated writer. 

But, now that I have more time to look at those ideas more fully, I realize they aren’t right.  They’re like boys you meet at clubs.  It’s dark; they’re dressed their best; you’re looking for the next best thing; and well, there’s generally something to impair judgment involved.   In the light of day, these flings (whether with new ideas or late-night dance partners) don’t hold up to closer scrutiny.

So, I’m on the hunt again. 

It’s both freeing and disconcerting to be at the starting point again.  Energizing and frightening.

On one hand, I can do as I initially planned.  There are a couple of secondary characters in my first story that I can revisit and give them their own spotlight.  The drawback is that I’m ridiculously sick of these people.  They’re houseguests that stayed too long; they’ve been occupying my brain so long that if I don’t see them any time soon, it’ll be fine.

But, disregarding them has left me with an identity crisis.  Do I want to write a straight historical?  Do I want to write something contemporary?  Do I want to write a paranormal? 

I’m not sure yet.   

Right now I’m leaning towards a straight paranormal, mostly because that’s where all my most interesting (to me) ideas seem to be.   I like the idea of writing something contemporary, just to see if my voice fits there. 

The beauty of all this is that I can stretch and see how I do. 

I love being an artist. 

So, how did the idea for your story come to you?  Have you experimented with different genres?  If not, ever think you will?  Do you like the beginning planning phase or do you find it frightening?  Anyone else ever felt that way about guys in clubs? 

Pamela Clare will be here this Friday! (And in case you live in your cave without a calendar to keep track, this Friday means December 05, 2008. I bet you’re still wearing your sweat band and dancing it out to Olivia Newton John, aren’t you? Dude.)

 

Honestly, I’ve got nothing today. I’m all hopped up on chocolate cake and glittery hoohas (I betcha didn’t think I’d dare to use it in an actual blog huh?) and even thoughts on how I could tie it all together with a big fat velvet red bow were next to nothing. So I give you the chaos inside my head.

 

Beware of sparkly objects. They are closer than they appear.

 

I know there are some of you (okay most of you) who don’t listen to music, have no desire to make up a new playlist, so we’re not staying on this topic. I’m just saying that it’s a good way to focus on your inner character. And since I’m a scatterbrain, I need someone to focus inside of my brain.

 

…

 

…

 

…

 

…

 

Sorry, I got distracted. Listen to Under the Flood and I lost my train of thought.

 

My newest story is in the land of world building. I find this hard for me to do because I’m a history fan and as my advisor once told me “wasted” my minor on history in college. I could’ve minored in programming or language or something to further my career; but no, I went to Dead Civilizations, Women’s History, American History, European History… my list goes on and on; but in something I’ve learn in world building is that sometimes you just have to ignore your inner history guru and go with the flow. Except I feel like I need to do some sort of justice to the ancient Proto Celtic civilization and dialect and ancestry. I’m not writing an ancient civilization historical. I’m writing a modern day tale of life and sacrifice and paranormal craziness.

 

So in the land of no return, is me *waving* and there is my playlist *screaming* and there is my paranoia *twitching* that it must be perfect because my inner history lover dies a little inside when I start making it up.  So I’ve devised myself a playlist to keep myself distracted over the details so I can just write it out and not think so much about it.

 

World building sucks the life out of you if you over think it. At least I think so.

 

So here are a few of my non-life-sucking-out-of-me playlist songs. Just to get me started into my groove and then I’m pretty good from there.

 

(Intro &) Big Tree- Desperate for Compromise

Undying- MSD

Waking the Demon- Bullet for My Valentine

Forfeit- Chevelle

Ashes- In This Moment

Murder- MSD

Coalescence- Desperate for Compromise

Serendipity- The Agonist

Expired- Endface

Worth the Pain- Digital Summer

 

 

One I get to the “Worth the Pain” song, I’m in the thick of things. I’ve made it to my required 1000 word mark to start making sense and not rambling like an idiot within my own story. From there on I listen to- oh god, I can’t believe I’m going to admit this in open air- Robert Pattinson’s song “Let Me Sign” on repeat. And before you guys make fun of me for being über hardcore and then wussing out, you’d have to listen to my playlist first and then decide. I can’t say why it’s important to my scene writing. I couldn’t have written a scene without it as she’s staring up at the sky and remembering the last time she’d saw her sister, how they stared up at the stars twinkling down on them and were at peace for five minutes as the world seemed to stop around them before they never see each other again.

 

“Let Me Sign” well, for me, it’s the perfect zoning out song. It’s the perfect for me because it’s not crazy. My thoughts can be collected and controlled. In the first 1000 words, I’m sporadic. World building requires the perfect amount of focus and creativity rolled up into the fingertips of someone willing to take a chance. I’m taking a character whose over 2000 years old and putting her into a modern human world. She’s feral and that’s the one thing I love about writing her and to me that song is about untamed love for one person and the desperation you feel- hopeless and struggling and fighting and falling.  

 

So let’s hear it readers and writers. If you’ve ever world built within your own book, what do you like most about it and what do you struggle with? Readers what aggravates you the most about writers who build their own worlds? What is your favorite kind of paranormal/sci-fi/urban fantasy reads and how does the world building draw you into the story?  And for our readers who don’t read para or sci-fi, what are your favorite parts about the genre you read or write?