When the Fog Lifts
A thousand random thoughts travel through my mind at the speed of light. I tap the keys of my laptop, hoping to capture the one that inspires me. A scenario is waiting behind the next fog bank, a teasing potential for a new WIP. I see the shadow of a figure step toward me. It stalks me in the mist, whispering the snippets of their existence in my mind…
Characters are as real as you wish to make them. They want, they dream, and they disappoint. As writers we form a shell of existence on the page. We breathe emotion, physical features, and actions into the outer and inter shell of their being. The shell becomes a person with flaws, conflicts, and the desire to love and be loved. Sometimes our characters never expect what we have in store for them, and most of the time they fight us tooth and nail with their own agenda. In each character, male or female, we leave a little part of ourselves behind. We grow, we cry, and we conquer the world with them. And in the end we are better writers for having created them.
We can never dream too high, or work too hard to make a character more real. We give them lives that possibly parallel with our own, or take us on a path we may desire in another life. We make them catapult unforeseen circumstances, and emotional hurdles. We place someone in their path that converges on their world, and changes them forever. We take them through the darkness and back into the light. We give them our best, and hope others see them as we do.
The characters that I remember from favorite authors are memorable for a reason. They spoke the right dialogue, they made me laugh, or they were good even when they were bad. But most of all, they made me want to be a better writer. They made me want to put a pen to paper.
…Finally the fog lifts, and the perfect vision of a man stands before me. His thoughts evade my mind, translating his deepest secrets. He is muscular, dark, and sinfully handsome. He has the physical strike of a rattler, and the stealth of a ninja warrior. He’s a modern day rake, who thinks women are for one use only. He could use his physical abilities and business contacts to make a dire situation better, but he doesn’t see it that way. He lives by his own rules, but even they are about to change.
His name is Mitch Black, and he has a story to tell.
How do your characters present themselves? Do you leave a part of yourself with each of your characters? Who is your favorite literary character, and why?
Miranda Neville Hijacks the Ship!
'ello wenches and pirates. It's me (in case you've started to miss the sound of my voice or something) here with the wonderful debut author Miranda Neville. Her book Never Resist Temptation, set in Regency England, released yesterday, February 24, 2009 from Avon books. Run out to your nearest bookstore and pick it up today, if you haven't already got a copy. And if so, get another and give it to someone.So without further ado, give a warm welcome to Miranda.
***
Aagh, me ‘earties, thanks for inviting me on board. My gal Jacobin's just who you cutthroats need in your galley. She'll toss your scurvy seacook out of the porthole, grab Cap'n Hellion's bottle of rum, and turn it into a Run Baba sooner than you can say "couteau." And if you're really good she'll bring her hottie, aka Anthony, Earl of Storrington (unless he's all tied up.)
Can I drop the pirate lingo now? I like pirates as much as the next girl but NEVER RESIST TEMPTATION
plants us squarely in Regency England with not so much as a cutlass in sight. In fact we start out in Regency Ground Zero, the Prince Regent's seaside palace at Brighton (so maybe there's a pirate or two offshore) where Jacobin de Chastelux, daughter of a French aristocrat and niece of an English baron, is working as a pastry cook. Because, despite her background, Jacobin has what we nowadays call a marketable skill. She learned to cook from her uncle's incredibly handsome chef (who isn't the hero).Just as well, because Jacobin is on her own. First her horrible uncle lost her in a card game to the evil Earl of Storrington, then she's suspected of trying to poison Uncle Candover. The good news is she's been offered another job. The bad news: her new employer is none other than the dastardly Earl.
Turns out the Earl (Anthony) isn't the disgusting old rake she'd envisioned. When he visits her in the kitchen the heat gets turned up to high and it isn't just in the oven. But Anthony has issues and his own motives for using her. Plus there's that little matter of a murder charge hanging over her. You'll have to read the book to discover how Jacobin and Anthony resolve their differences, track down the real murderer and learn to appreciate whipped cream.
I had a lot of fun with the food in the book and I use authentic recipes from the cookbooks of Antonin Carême, history's first "celebrity chef." He worked for French monarchs, the Tzar of Russia and, for a short time, the Prince Regent. Reading about him was the catalyst that made me decide to write a romance with a culinary background.
I know one of you villains is writing about a contemporary chef. Let's face it, there's something very sexy about food. How do you use food in your writing? Can you think of any romances with good eating scenes? The best answer wins a prize. (Hint: it involves chocolate)
Birthday Girl Goes People Watching
My birthday is tomorrow; and as with birthdays, everyone uses these things as a reason to eat and celebrate. It’s not a landmark birthday (still got a few years before the next landmark), but being I’ve managed to make it another year without deleting myself from the Darwinian gene pool with any massive feats of stupidity, I guess that’s as good a reason to celebrate as any.
Today though is Mardi Gras, which is all about the stupidity. Well, not really, but being some of the most incriminating and stupid photos of me feature this holiday, I could make a good argument. It’s apparently the one time of year I like to imitate a drunk sorority girl. However, this year I have no intention of showing my naked boobs to complete strangers. Not that the ta-tas aren’t looking good. I’ve been doing the chest track during BodyPump religiously. They’re perky for their age, thank you. No, it’s just I plan to have a low-key night of crawfish and raw oysters, beer and laughs. Nothing crazy; and definitely no, “Hey driver, drive these” re-enactments. Not even for purposes of quoting Talladega Nights in public for the hilarity of it. Just a birthday’s eve of non-nude festivities to ring in the New Year of Hellion, and then a whole day to myself.
My writing assignment for my birthday is to do that “Live your life” rule where you can’t write anything if you’re not doing stuff that can be written about. And you can find a lot of freaky stuff to write about on Mardi Gras. I mean, I’m not the only person going around, imitating Talladega Nights. And though I loathe crowded places, I don’t mind it if I’m with Holly because she won’t let the rude, crazy people spill too much beer on me. She’s a good mentor for a reluctant hero. She loves to point out crazy people for us to mock. I’m going to observe; I’m going to have fun; and I’m going to play the “What if” game as I drink—because the answers get a lot funnier after about three beers. Like, “What if you didn’t shoot Ben? What if you cut his brake lines and drove his car off a cliff?” Though I have to say, none of us were drunk when this suggestion was made.
I had to reiterate that I have no desire to be the next Nicholas Sparks.
So, what are you favorite “live your life” things to do? Have you recently written anything that was directly from a conversation or situation in real life? Anyone else going to party it up tonight and eat raw oysters? Sin, you gotta come by and do the Talladega Nights bit….
Dastardly Deeds Done with Deliberation
* - Captain Hellion surveys the main deck of the Revenge. Off to one side stands the ramshackle bar 2nd Chance mans when she’s aboard. At one side stands Sin, the monkey lounging at her shoulder. Chance and Sin are huddled together, as if contemplating some deep dark plan. Terrio wanders near, fills up her tankard, listens in a moment, then shudders and moves away. Hel waves her to wheel.
* - “What they up to, Ter?” The Captain asks the gunner. “Looks ominous…”
* - “Oh, it’s wicked! They are comparing dastardly deeds done to main characters.” Terrio shakes her head.
* - “Ones they wrote or read?” Hel takes Terrio’s tankard and empties it. Terrio is too shaken to object.
* - “Both!” Terrio sniffs, wanting more drink but not wanting to approach the bar again.
* - A moment later shouting begins on the deck as Sin yells, “That’s nothing! I done worse!”
* - Chance bellows a reply, “Ya lily livered ninja lover, yer a flat faced liar, ya are! I done the most despicable thing…”
* - The two begin to circle, Sin reaching for her throwing stars. Chance draws her cutlass, preparing to block the nasty little throwers.
* - “Stow them weapons!” Hellion shouts out, jumping to the main deck. Marnee and Lisa come running at the commotion. “I just had the Sunday hottie swab the deck, and we be low on shamwows!” She turns to Terrio – “Remind me to order more shamows…”
* - The pirates separate the two combatants. At hearing of the controversy, a contest begins. Who can name the darkest dastardly deed, done deliberately.
Ahem. Yes I’ve done the dastardly deed again and again in my writing. I’ve taken worlds and shattered them with merciless deliberation. I may not have the finesse to do all this with emotions and subtle weapons, but I yield my big hammer with deadliness.
Not sure what it is about the fascination a good disaster. (Good disaster?) Well, a bad disaster holds for me. From a rough capture and…dare I say it…yes, I will. A rape…yes. Well…ahem…it challenges my characters to show more character (sorry) than they have before. The potential to prove themselves, to rise above the deed, whether they did it or had it done to them, is pure drama.
After they spend some time twisting in the wind with self doubt and inner turmoil, of course.
I am an action oriented author. I like it in my movies, I like it in the books I read. (Though with television, I like witty dialogue. Go figure!) But watching the world crumble under merciless meteors, rising waters, evil minions…I dig it all. Armageddon? Bring it on!
The opportunities for growth are endless. Least that is my take on the situation. But it has to serve a purpose, done deliberately to move the story along, to give rise to heroic deeds… Hard as it is to subject my characters to it all…
Though, after destroying California in my pirate saga, the rest came easy…
So, me maties…what made ya shiver as ya read, as ya wrote? Did ya chuckle as ya took yer stalwart hero and tortured ‘im? Murdered his children? Scolded his dog? Were it dark in the night when ya rubbed yer palms tagether ta plan the destruction of everyt’ing the heroine ‘olds dear? Why did ya do these terrible things? Did they serve a purpose? What scenes ‘ave ya read that made ya wince in sympathy, shake yer ‘ead, figurin’ this was something they’d never surmount? Any dastardy deed fill ya with anger, no purpose ta it? Let’s ‘ear all the grisly details now!
Riff-Writing
Finally, this weekend, I cornered him about it. “Are you planning on using this Borders’ card or not?” And my tone was the same one I use about leftovers in the fridge, full of it’s-going-to-go-bad and don’t-let-it-go-to-waste.
Without even looking up from Sportscenter or whatever was on TV he says, “I just thought you were going to use it.” As if book-related things in our house were mine by default.
I’ve told you he was a smart man.
So, Monday I skipped off to Borders like I won the lottery, not just inherited a 25 dollar gift card from my husband.
I spent two hours at Borders (not only did this man give me the Borders’ card but he also offered to watch the kiddo all day so I could go use it. I KNOW! He’s up for sainthood, I swear.) I bought two books (Witch Fire by Anya Bast and The Nightkeepers by Jessica Andersen, in case you’re interested) and I bought Elizabeth Lyon’s Manuscript Makeover.
I’ve already started reading Elizabeth Lyon’s book and I’m impressed. I’ve read a lot of writing craft books, but I like her approach. I thought I’d share a few tips with you.
Not all at once, people. Relax. I’m just going to hit on things a little at a time as I go. You won’t need to take notes and there won’t be a test. Have some rum.
The first tidbit I got was called riff-writing. According to Elizabeth Lyon, “Riff-writing differs from (‘free’ writing) by being expressly applied to revising a portion of your writing…. It’s very directed. You already have your “art”, your novel or short story. Riff-writing helps you expand your imagination around a particular problem or need – to lengthen a section, to add images, or to develop more characterization.”
The idea is to find a passage in your story that feels like it could use some additional description and then just let yourself go further. Even if you delete a big chunk of it later, maybe you’ll be able to use parts of it too. It’s supposed to help turn off the inner censor, the one that tells us not to “overwrite.”
I thought I’d offer up some of mine and how I expanded…. Disclaimer: I just wrote this yesterday so
it’s rough.
The original version:
The rasp of a key forced her to scurry back, crab-style, to avoid being hit by the opening door.
The sexy Hulk from last night – Nik – stepped inside. His hair was in disarray and he looked like he’d just left his bed. Her mouth went dry and she swallowed as images of him sprawled out horizontal filled her mind. She dropped her gaze from his body and tucked her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them.
“I need to leave,” she told him without preamble, staring at her kneecaps.
The expanded version:
The rasp of a key forced her to scurry back, crab-style, to avoid being hit by the opening door.
The sexy Hulk from last night – Nik – stepped inside. Her eyes followed the line of him, up muscular calves and thighs, past lean hips and waist, and over his flat stomach and wide shoulders.
His hair was in disarray and he looked like he’d just left his bed. Her mouth went dry and she swallowed as images of him sprawled out horizontal filled her mind. Suddenly, the visions she’d seen in his eyes last night replayed for her and her body buzzed with the memory.
His gaze swept the room before it lowered to where she sat on the floor. Heat crept up her throat and washed over her face. She dropped her gaze from his body and tucked her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. She swallowed again.
“I need to leave,” she told him without preamble, staring at her kneecaps.
So, I’m offering this to you. Feel free to riff some of your own stuff here. If you don’t wanna share, what do you think about these kinds of exercises? Do you think this strengthens writing or do you think that a more concise version is best? Do you have a problem with overwriting or do you go the opposite way? How do you get around these problems?
Yo Ho, and a Local Book Signing.
Joining me today on the ship is Anne Krist (author of Burning Bridges, and "sister" to Dee S. Knight whose The Fireman and the Ice Queen releases this June). Today's blog is an article Anne wrote as an ode to local book signings. (I like to call it, "I feel pretty" because she got it stuck in my head.) I'll turn it over to so you can now realize how a real writer keeps you enthralled on a Wednesday.
Take it away, Anne.
***
Book signings are the joy and the bane of writers. They can be full of fun where readers, friends and family stop and chat whether they buy a book or not, and they can be long-line joyous successes where you sell so many books you go home singing I Feel Pretty.
Then there is the other kind of signing event, the lonely kind, sometimes more familiar to authors who aren't really well-known. You can imagine what I mean if you haven't experienced it yourself. You sit at a little table not large enough for your signs and goodies and books, smiling at everyone who walks past. Their eyes flash questioning looks; you try to look reassuring, friendly. You say, "Have you read my latest romance?" They move their children to their far side, away from the crazy woman holding up the trade paperback, and hurry them along. Or they hasten by not making eye contact. Or they stand in front of the table, blocking it from everyone else, picking up a book, putting it down. Picking it up, putting it down. Picking it... Until they walk away buying nothing. Grrrr.
I had a signing this past Saturday in the adorable little bookstore in my adorable little town here in Illinois. My day was marginally successful but I do have a few tips and one or two things I'm changing for next time.
Don't bring chocolates. Really. I was surprised but here's the lesson I learned. Women in my adopted hometown do not appreciate one of God's greatest creations. Even their children walked past the basket of Kisses and Dove hearts without a backward glance. Is there something in the water here?? I mean, isn't it un-American to pass up chocolates? It was Valentine's Day, and what else should I have brought as an enticing treat to lure people to the table? After all, flowers are a moment's fleeting pleasure while chocolate is forever. On the hips, at least. Anyway, next book signing, I'm bringing a crudités tray.
Speak to everyone. I think I said something to every child who passed my way and every harried mother, as well as the two elderly gentlemen who looked more like they read Civil War histories than romance. But you never know, right?
Stand and address people. The aisles in my bookstore were too narrow for me to stand in them, but if you can, stand-don't sit-by your table, book poised and at the ready. Greet store patrons when they get close enough and jam your book in their grubby, little hands. Hard. Keep contact until they get the idea they can't just drop it on the table again. Some potential buyers are deviously stubborn in their resistance to buying your book.
Make sure you've met your support team. The manager in my store is a lovely person, but she was tied up almost the whole time I was there. My support system were two wonderful high school students. Before things got busy, we chatted. Afterward, they greeted people with, "Please stop and meet our local author." They also helped with anything I needed.
Invite every single person you know. Everyone. We have a very small family and I don't push my books on them, believe me. But I definitely guilted them into coming to the book signing. Why? Because no one knows if your family buys your books or not, but everyone knows if you sit two hours and not a single person shows up at a book signing. You at least have to have family. Besides, it's times like these when you really see the up side of having relatives close by. Make the most of it.
Have fun. I didn't sell all the books I took and displayed so artfully, but I did have a good time meeting other people in town. And I had my choice of chocolates. J
Most publishers will tell you that book signings aren't worth the time if you're going for the big sales. That's possibly true. I was part of a book signing a few years ago where a my only customer, a man, hemmed and hawed over Your Desire for so long I finally gave him the book. How humiliating. However, greed and desire to be famous aside, other aspects of book signings make them fun and worthwhile. So much so, I might schedule another one for next Saturday. Or not.
Do you have book signing stories to share? Or questions? Please send them in, or I'll feel all alone, and I had enough of that on Saturday.
Play All Up in Your Box: Yes, Mattycakes, This Title's For You
The day I was brought home from the hospital, much to the surprise and chagrin of my older-generation parents, they belatedly realized they’d neglected to prepare for my immenient arrival and thus did not have a crib. (In their defense, I was supposedly two months early, even though I weighed eight pounds.) I spent my first week in a cardboard box.
But even after I outgrew the box and was given a crib, I never outgrew my fascination for boxes. I’d sit in the smaller ones and “drive”, usually some fast sporty car. I loved to put clothespins on the edges and zoom-zoom. I would play in my box-car all day long. I’m telling you, the X-box generation does not know what it’s missing.
I also loved big refrigerator boxes. And the ones that stoves came in. I would turn these monster cardboard dreams into playhouses and castles. I’d cut out windows—or I’d get mom or dad to do so—and I’d color them. I’d hang my blankets off them for privacy and hide in them. Yes, I learned early there is a lot of stuff you can do with a box if you just look at it for a while and figure out the possibilities inside it.
After awhile, I outgrew boxes and the imagination that comes with having them. I probably discovered boys. That seems most likely. And I never met any really cool ones who wanted to play in my box with me. *droll look* So I moved onto other hobbies. Like watching TV.
Now, I’m not a huge watcher of Sponge Bob Squarepants (though I can sing the words to the theme song and have been known to do this in grocery stores if I walk past the pineapple section. “Who lives in a pineapple under the sea? Sponge Bob Squarepants!”) Though the few times I’ve caught episodes, it has the sheer stupidity of The Three Stooges with a moral or theme that’s more profound than the Dalai Lama. The absolute best episode I watched featured Sponge Bob receiving his TV by express order. He was so excited—it was a huge TV—and Squidward, the cranky neighbor, wasn’t a bit excited. He never is, but you can’t blame him. If I had a perky neighbor like Sponge Bob, I think I’d have the same look on my face.
Sponge Bob takes out his TV from the box, tosses it aside like so much garbage, and proceeds to crawl into the now-empty box with Patrick. It was the box, you see, that he found to be the most important. Squidward thinks Sponge Bob is a headcase, but since this is not news to anyone, he merely asks Sponge Bob if he can have the TV. Sponge Bob says, “Take it!” Squidward practically skips home with his free dumpster diving prize. He sets it up in his living room; admires the large screen and high-definition; and starts to watch a show. He is interrupted by surround sound noise coming from outside: from Sponge Bob’s empty box. What is going on?
Squidward, being unable to help himself, investigates. He’s hearing gunshots, cowboys, Indians, war whoops. There’s a battle going on. He pulls up the lid to the box, and nothing. Sponge Bob and Patrick blink up at him in innocent confusion, looking exactly like two cartoon characters sitting in a plain cardboard box like a couple of idiots. Squidward even makes himself say, “I thought I heard a fight going on. What are you doing?” And Sponge Bob gladly tells Squidward that he’s using his IMAGINATION. He makes a gesture with his hands like a rainbow. (I only explain that because my friend Holly and I like this episode so much, sometimes we greet each other by quoting this line, complete with gesture and vapid Sponge Bob expression.)
Squidward doesn’t believe in ridiculous things like IMAGINATION. He stomps off in a huff; but the sounds and such continue, and each time he investigates, Sponge Bob gives the IMAGINATION speech. Finally Patrick and Sponge Bob stop playing for the day and go home to go to bed. They leave the box outside; and Squidward, again unable to help himself, crawls in the box to give IMAGINATION a try. He’s very pleased and shocked when he finds out it works. Though unfortunately it’s really a garbage truck carting him off to the city dump—but whatever.
Now I only tell you this story because you’re undoubtedly surrounded by Squidwards. Everyone has a Squidward in their life. Your inner critic is a Squidward; your mother is probably a Squidward; Ms. Yount, my beloved high school teacher, is a Squidward. Most mean well; they’re only trying to keep your dreams lodged in reality, which as you and I know is the last place dreams need or should be. But don’t worry. You’re Sponge Bob. You believe in the cardboard box; and you see all the possibilities in it. You bring the cardboard box to life every day you go and make your mark in it. You have plenty of IMAGINATION.
Squidward will probably point out that cardboard boxes are generic and formulaic…and anybody can make a playhouse out of a cardboard box. Yes, but not everyone sees a playhouse in a cardboard box and therefore creates one. And yes, all playhouses start out with the same structure—that’s not a crime—that’s just structure. Your playhouse is uniquely you, even if it has the same four walls as the playhouse next door, because only you know where the windows go and how many rooms it has. Only you know what color to paint the walls and the curtains to hang. There is a supreme difference between basic structure and formulas even a kindergartener could do. After all, if anyone could truly write one of those formulaic, fill-in-the-blank MadLibs Romance Novels, then anyone would; but the fact remains only a small percentage ever finish writing any novel, formula or literary, because writing is hard. You have to be willing to put your trust in IMAGINATION. You have to be able to see the possibilities inside a cardboard box and turn it into a place somebody else would want to live in.
I bet you guys never thought you could learn anything from Sponge Bob and cardboard boxes, did you?
Okay, question time. Hopefully we all know I meant that although many romance writers use the ‘formula’ of Beauty & the Beast, or Cinderella, or the Ugly Duckling, et al, it’s our creative imprint that makes the structure our own story. What unique imprint do you bring to your cardboard box (i.e. what’s your writing strengths? Your writing voice?)? What cardboard box are you currently playing in? Are you having as much fun as Sponge Bob--or are you being more like Squidward?
Intense Blue Eyes and Crooked Smiles
So as I begin a new manuscript, I am again faced with the task of describing my character's physical appearance, and again, I am finding this to be a daunting task. I'm stumped. I have an image in my head for each of them. I know what their face looks like, their expressions, their mannerisms. Yet, somehow, this doesn't get transferred to paper. I end up falling back on clichés I use over and over again, like "intense blue eyes" which really manages to say nothing. Or smiles that "tilt up a centimeter more on the left than the right." But how many heroes can I really have with crooked smiles? Eventually, the smile is going to have to tilt higher on the right just to shake things up a bit.
A lot of authors handle description of a character's physical appearance extremely well. Lisa Kleypas, of course, does amazing at this. But one of my favorite descriptions comes for Toni Morrison, who I usually struggle to read. In this passage from Beloved, she goes into such great depths about a slave woman's eyes (from the POV of Paul D, as she's telling him about running away):
A face too still for comfort; irises the same color as her skin, which, in that still face, used to make him think of a mask with mercifully punched-out eyes…..Even in that tiny shack, leaning so close to the fire you could smell the heat in her dress, her eyes did not pick up a flicker of light. They were like two wells into which he had trouble gazing. Even punched out they needed to be covered, lidded, marked with some sign to warn folks of what that emptiness held. So he looked instead at the fire while she told him.
The phrase "mercifully punched-out eyes" has stayed with me, literally for years. Now that is a description of a character, and tells so much more than "intense blue eyes."
So the question is, how do you take someone's face, and all the nuances of expression and features, and put it on paper. I have no answer to this. But I thought it might be fun to do an experiment. Below are pictures I've picked up as possible ideas for characters. Each of them, to me, has a very specific expression, one which communicates that they're exactly the sort of person my character is. But how to describe them on paper?
How would you describe this character? (we'll call her, above left, Josephine) What type of assumptions would you make about her character or personality?
Or how about this charcter? (and well call her, below right, Molly) What would say or assume differently about her?
Anyone else struggle with this? Any descriptions of characters that have stuck with you? Conversely, have you have had an image in your head of a character, and the author keeps ruining it by describing them differently?
Quotes of Inspiration
I find writing inspiration from as many sources as possible. I read to inspire my muse. I watch movies to foster ideas in my imagination. I listen to conversations to perfect dialogue. I practice writing from prompt exercises. But one of my favorite past times is reading famous writer’s quotes. It’s a great source of inspiration, and influence to read the thoughts of those who share our passion. Today I’m sharing a few of my favorite quotes. I hope they spark an understanding and a renewed commitment to your work.
If my doctor told me I had only six minutes to live, I wouldn’t brood. I’d type a little faster.
Isaac Asimov
Practice, practice, practice writing. Writing is a craft that requires both talent and acquired skills. You learn by doing, by making mistakes and then seeing where you went wrong.
Jeffrey A. Carver
Writing is an adventure. To begin with, it is a toy and an amusement. Then it becomes a mistress, then it becomes a master, then it becomes a tyrant. The last phase is that just as you are about to be reconciled to your servitude, you kill the monster and fling him to the public.
Winston Churchill
If there is a special Hell for writers it would be in the forced contemplation of their own works.
John Dos Passos
In going where you have to go, and doing what you have to do, and seeing what you have to see, you dull and blunt the instrument you write with. But I would rather have it bent and dull and know I had to put it on the grindstone again and hammer it into shape and put a whetstone to it, and know I had something to write about, than to have it bright and shining and nothing to say, or smooth and well-oiled in the closet, but unused."
Ernest Hemingway
Keep in mind that the person to write for is yourself. Tell the story that you most desperately want to read.
Susan Isaacs
I see the notion of talent as quite irrelevant. I see instead perseverance, application, industry, assiduity, will, will, will, desire, desire, desire.
Gordon Lish
Recollection is the only paradise from which we cannot be turned out.
Jean Paul Richter
But words are things, and a small drop of ink, falling like dew upon a thought, produces that which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
Lord Byron
The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and the lightning bug.
Mark Twain
Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
William Wordsworth
No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader.
Robert Frost
If the sex scene doesn't make you want to do it - whatever it is they're doing – it hasn’t been written well.
Sloan Wilson
Usually, when people get to the end of a chapter, they close the book and go to sleep. I deliberately write my books so when the reader gets to the end of a chapter, he or she must turn one more page. When people tell me I've kept them up all night, I feel like I've succeeded!
Sidney Sheldon
Opportunity dances with those who are already on the dance floor.
H. Jackson Brown Jr.
Never let inexperience get in the way of ambition.
Terry Josephson
I am a part of all I have read.
John Kieran
Share some of your favorite quotes. Where are some unexpected places you’ve found inspiration? Write an original quote to inspire your fellow writers.
My Favorite Storylines
Like so many diehard readers, I could nerd it up meandering through the bookshelves at a bookstore for hours. Barnes and Noble feeds my obsession. I get a cup of coffee (Café Mocha) and I start puttering. I hit most of the racks, though I admit that I mostly skim over the self-help and textbook sections. The fiction sections are more my cup of tea (or coffee as it were).
Inevitably I end up in the romance section, picking up book after book and reading the back.
There are certain plotlines that suck me in every time, that get me reading.
I love to read reunion stories. A story about a guy and girl, separated by circumstance, then brought back together - it gets me every time. Either they hate each other for some misunderstanding or something got between them, whatever it is they get another chance. I love second chances. Paradise by Judith McNaught is a great example of this because she even gives me their backstory.
I also adore a story where the plain Jane gets the hot guy. It’s the Cinderella story without the money. Though maybe there is money too, whatever. I just love reading about a normal girl who gets the dream, whose wish comes true. Perfect by Judith McNaught is a great example. Lover Eternal by JR Ward is another (I heart Rhage).
What storyline completely sucks you in? Why is it your favorite? What’s your favorite example of that storyline? Conversely, are there any storylines that you think are just played out?
I heart Alphas
Alphas.
Influence this week-
Sleep With Me- City Sleeps - Not an Angel (2008)
Before the Dawn- Evanescence- Pre-release(2001)
For You- Desperate for Compromise- Coalescence (2006)****
I was wrapped in a cocoon of warmth. Arms like steel pipes held onto me protectively, a chest rose and fell beneath my head and our legs were entangled. Light streamed through the darkened blinds and cast bright beams into my closed eyes. I moved just enough to adjust my hips and the sheet covering them, but his arms tightened and drew me closer.
I couldn't be here when he woke up. I should've been long gone hours ago; but there was something about him I couldn't let go. I looked up at his face. Imagined the look in his eyes last night while he looked down at me. The way his eyes darkened with each gasp, with each touch. I couldn't get it out of my head.
In the quiet confines of this place, he was totally relaxed. The fine lines hugging the corners of his eyes, around the corner of his lips were smoothed. No hard lines pressed into those lips. No clenched jaw. Nothing but silence between us and I couldn't quite stop the non-stop contradictions going on inside my head.
I wanted to feel indifferent- I told myself I was indifferent- but right now, I was anywhere but at indifferent.
My hand slid between his arms and down to his hip. Emotion was dangerous, I told myself. And stupid. And I'd made enough stupid mistakes to recognize another one in the act. This had gone on long enough. Cut the tie now and get gone. Fast.
I slid my hand away from his hip and melted away from him as easily as I could. Each time his breathing changed, I held my breath as a thief might do in the middle of the night. My dress was ripped, the halter buttons were MIA, the zipper destroyed. I looked around for his dress shirt and slipped it on. It came to mid-thigh, good enough to keep me covered up enough to get to the car. I scooped up the dress and heels and went in search of car keys.
"If you're looking for your keys, they're on the kitchen counter." His voice was hoarse, sleepy, filled with promises he could keep and my heart pounded harder with each second. Don't turn back, I told myself. Don't turn around.
Even though I paused for a second, I held my head high as I padded softly to the counter and sure enough, they were sitting right on the edge. I expected to hear him behind me. Hands sliding up my arms and pulling me back into him. But I didn't. I didn't know whether to be relieved or a little sad.
"You don't have to go." I felt his eyes on me, on the backs of my bare legs and bare feet. "You'll be safe here."
God, I felt anything but safe. Everything I held onto was in turmoil, including my life. And the way I felt about this man, whom on all accounts I shouldn't even trust enough to turn my back on, had me all tore up inside.
I kept my eyes firmly on the solid wood door. In this part of the apartment, the sun had yet to shine her grace down and the only the soft glow coming from the bedroom helped illuminate the room. I squared my shoulders and turned to face him.
"That's where you're wrong."
And it took everything I had to walk out of his life and not look back.
*****
I'm a fan of alphas. I've spoke loud and proud of my love for the alpha male. There is just something about a man who can just pin you with a look that's full of all sorts of wicked promises. Who's more action than words. Who's so mysterious, so in control that you know as soon as one ounce of that control slips something so powerful and magical happens that you're life is forever changed. It's the forced kiss in the dark alley as the shadows approach you slowly. It's the look in their eyes that tell you so many things you wish you could've said aloud, but can't. It is that constant pull of emotion that keeps you coming back for more.
Alphas are the sort of characters and people who demand attention. They don't tip toe around the situation. They are the situation. They are the answer for every problem. They are the doer. And everyone loves a doer.
Today, my love not only extends to the male alpha, but to the female alpha. The woman who knows what has to be done and does it. No matter what the sacrifice. No matter the cost. She wants what she can't have. She sees everything taken away and still keeps putting one foot in front of her because she's determined to change her fortune. Girl crushes are often formed on the female alpha because she often embodies everything you've ever wanted to represent, everything you've wanted to do.
What happens when a male and female alpha meet? Pure adrenaline. Pure aggression. Pure chemistry.
Alphas won't discuss feelings. In an alphas world, there is no such thing. A woman alpha is very aware of her feelings, but finds some way to squash down to the point it no longer matters if that's what she wants. It only matters the action to get her to the point of having what she wants. Because the end always justifies the means. Sadie knows what has to be done; what she must do and what has to be sacrificed in order to stop everything put into motion but she longs for the one thing she's never let herself ever have. And that is love.
Anyone care to share their best story of new relationship? (I suppose it is almost v-day (thank goodness I don't have to blog on v-day this year *wiping sweat from brow*) and we could share a good story about the significant other). In regards to writing, how do you tend to your write your heroines? Or have a girl crush on an alpha female? What sort of mate goes good with an alpha girl?
Panties on a Stick and Other Hazards of Valentine's Day Expectations
I've always been burdened with high expectations.
When I was little, they implemented that policy where students were to bring all the students in the class a card, whether they liked them or not. Politically correct Valentine's. Thus I was the recipient of relunctant valentines like, “You’re a good friend” or “You’re a little special I guess” spoken by lame cartoon characters like Tweety Bird. When I was 7, I didn't notice this trend so much; but by 6th grade, I was so aware of my lack of loveability on the valentine scale. I would stare at my heart's crush's valentine and try to read a seething passion beneath the banality of the "You're sweet" written there.
But everyone knows that "You're sweet" is the kiss of death in Valentine speak. I might as well have been told I had a nice personality.
Things did not improve with age. In high school, the height, breadth, and depth of my teenage love and angst, I was madly in love with a player of the basketball team. (The same crush from 6th grade. You couldn't doubt my loyalty.) FFA used to sell Valentine cupcakes for .50 apiece, and you could do it secretly. And what better way to win a guy than through his stomach right? Only I wasn’t the only one with a “secret crush” on Jay-Bird, and by the time Valentine’s had passed, it was a wonder he hadn’t gained twenty pounds. My .50 cupcakes never won him over, as you might have guessed.
My expectations sufficiently dashed in high school—and the 1% left for college, rubbed out in the first year—I have arrived to my thirties with a much lower expectation of the holiday. Actually no expectations. And when I see the decorations rolled out in December, I wear a perpetual sneer until the day passes and I see the candy marked 70% off, which I then buy for myself. I do gain twenty pounds. Now the sneering, negative expectations, and twenty pounds probably contributes to my lack of valentines, I may concede, but honestly, most of my married and dating friends aren’t faring much better.
And quite honestly, I’ve seen men at Christmas shopping, and they’re worse on Valentine’s Day. Women think about Valentine’s Day around December when those damned decorations are rolled out. Men think about it in the gas station line on V-Day, while glancing at the wall calendar and going, “Shit, is it Valentine’s Day today? She’s going to be pissed. Quick, what can I buy her here?” Upon glancing about the store, he arrives at this obvious choice. God help the man I’m dating if he ever hands me one of these nifty little things. Nothing says “Shit, I forgot” like polyester underwear rolled into a ball and stuck on a stick.
Okay, there was that one year I was dating the gay ex-boyfriend; and he went the whole shebang on Valentine’s. I got dinner; flowers, six boxes of chocolate; a present; and a card. I did not get any sex the whole time we dated, though, so I still didn’t enjoy that Valentine’s quite as much as I thought I would. Which goes to prove that there is no pleasing some women.
Kidding. Actually it made me think: I had every trapping of romance I’d been expecting, but I still didn’t feel loved. (I’m going to get a lot of emails about how sex does not mean you’re loved, aren’t I? You know what I mean. There’s just something about having a guy who acts like he constantly wants to take your clothes off that makes you feel, well, a little bit desirable. And less like this woman. And believe me, opening every box of chocolate that day sorta made me feel, “He so doesn’t want to see you naked.”)
I think that’s what it’s all about in the end, isn’t it? It’s not necessarily the romantic gesture—which doesn’t have to be flowers or diamonds or dinner at an overpriced restaurant—but the fact that I feel loved. Desired. Cared about.
A guy who will come and get me at three in the morning and change my flat tire, without fuss—that’s love. That’s a romantic gesture I’m looking for. Anybody can get candy.
A guy who can’t bear to see me cry who makes me laugh again—or better yet, just lets me cry on his shoulder until I’m done, and doesn’t tell me he thinks I’m a complete lunatic because I’m weeping over Budweiser commercials—that’s love. I can buy my own damned flowers.
A guy that greets me at the door when I come home from the gym and treats me to a round of against the wall lovemaking that would make the lovers from The Notebook envious. That’s what I want. You can keep your panties on a stick, Phillips 66, I have the real deal.
Now that I’ve gotten my 800-word rant about Panties on a Stick out of the way and done my public service announcement for all the men out there (“No panties on sticks!”), what the hell does this have to do with writing? Everything. The hot sex in books is great. I’m glad we’ve pushed boundaries; I’m glad of all the hot sex, I am. (Did you read the part above about the gay ex? Okay.) But I find more and more books are cutting to the sex and forgetting the Romantic Gesture. You know, the flat tire one. (Okay, there are lots of wall-lovemaking, but no other gestures.) And I’ve noticed we’ve been jumping into bed with our heroes a lot sooner. I mean, what happened to the good old days when we used to wait 15 years before we gave in? Sexual tension is an awesome thing.
I think one of my favorite Romantic Gestures or “What I Did For Love” moments in a novel was Whisper of Roses. The heroine is injured in a riding accident and can’t walk. She refuses to be a burden to her husband and has her parents take her home, saying mean and nasty things to her husband so he won’t miss her. (Hers is not the Romantic Gesture.) She doesn’t walk; she doesn’t try—and she grows meaner and more bitter, and also more fragile and sad. Her husband comes back into her life and nags the crap out of her. Dumps her out of her wheelchair. Flashes her legs to half of London at a dance party. Torments and teases her. And she ends up walking again. Of course, those two nearly blow it again with a Black Moment that outdoes the “I won’t be a burden to my husband” moment, but my goodness, what a nailbiter. And how romantic! I mean, he helped her get her spirit back, her ability to walk. When I’m sick, I can’t get a man to nuke me a can of chicken soup. But if I did, I’d brag about it.
And I want the same thing in my books. I haven't thought of anything truly brilliant for Adam and Eve yet. But then I haven't written far enough into the book. I suppose Ben’s big gesture (in Girl on the Grecian Urn) is that he steps in front of the bullet. But I was equally fond of the way he’d show up and bring ice cream for no reason; how he’d come again to the apartment even after they fought (didn’t hold a grudge); how he thought all that costume making was probably a little Martha Stewarty, but she was still sexy as hell. And the boy was a talker. He rarely brought gifts, but he was never without that silver tongue of his.
So. Unload here. What are your expectations for this Valentine’s? What are you hoping you’re not getting this year? What are some of your favorite romantic gestures in literature, or best romantic lines? Anything you’ve written in the romantic gesture category you want to share, or real life stories to share?
Dream Your Discovery - A Tribute to Mr. Rourke
- 2nd Chance steered the ship throughout the night, eyes fixed on the horizon. As the sun rose, her goal appeared ahead of them. She grinned, catching a glimpse of the Captain leaving the warmth of her cabin. They’d all be so surprised! And she hoped, pleased.
- Captain Hellion yawned hugely then stared at the unfamiliar tropical beach on the port side. The Revenge slid up to the wooden pier as Chance let out a whoop and dashed for the side. The anchor slid home, the deckhands lowered the sails. Chance scurried off the ship.
-Sin sidled up to the Cap’n, “Where are we, Hel?” The undead monkey screeched, his tail curled around her neck. She stroked the little imp, calming him.
-“No idea, Chance asked to hold the wheel last night. I thought she just wanted to pretend. I didn’t give her leave to move the ship,” Hel shrugged. “Looks nice…”
-Terrio stretched as she joined the other two at the rail, “Uh…? Who is that hugging Chance?”
- “Nice suit,” Marnee commented. “White is a bit impractical though.”
-Hel suddenly stood up straighter, “Oh. I don’t believe it. Is that a lei and a…a little person heading this way?”
- The faint echo of a voice confirmed the Captain’s suspicions. “Da ship! Da ship!” She groaned, “How did she do this?”
- “Fantasy Island? We’re anchored at Fantasy Island?” Lisa lifted her tankard and drank deeply. “Oh, she has been going on about Ricardo Montalban lately…”
- The crew watched as the elegant man leaned closer to speak to Chance, who appeared to actually simper. Sin snorted, “How old is she anyway?”
- Hel shook her head, “Polite pirates don’t ask.”
- “Twelve?” Marnee ventured a guess. The rest chuckled.
- At the edge of the shore, Mr. Rourke smiled at Chance, “Your fantasy awaits…” Chance dashed off, laughing madly as he continued out the pier to greet the rest of the crew. Chance had bargained well… The Fantasy Island bartender had insisted on the trade. A copy of Chance’s bartender book for a day on Fantasy Island for the entire crew. He actually looked forward to trying a Glittery Hoohaa…
Chance’s Fantasy…
…Paul’s wife had forced him to leave all his files behind. She wanted him to have a real vacation. She really didn’t understand the draw of discovering new talent, of mentoring an author through the labyrinth of the publishing world. But she meant well. She’d sent him ahead, planning on joining him for the second week. He was on his own, with a week to relax and enjoy the beaches of the famous Monterey Bay.
For a few days, he had relaxed. She’d made him swear not to open any e-mails from the agency, his authors or publishers. He’d read several books, authors his competitors had signed on, wandered downtown Santa Cruz and visited the Boardwalk. But now he was bored. He strode into the Starbucks he’d discovered. It was close to his hotel, had a nice patio and a roomy interior. He took the chair he’d come to consider his and studied the people around him. One woman caught his attention. She was there every morning, typing away at her small laptop. She was very intent.
The computer was a sweet little thing and she’d decorated it with a bright display of parrots, a small pirate ship and a treasure chest. She was friendly with the baristas and appeared to be a real fixture. Yesterday, he’d actually visited a bookstore and returned several hours later to see her still perched on the wooden chair, a melted bit of drink still at her side, typing madly. This morning seemed the same.
She chuckled and it made him smile. “Must be a nice e-mail,” he commented to the barista, wiping a nearby table.
“Our internet is down today,” the young woman answered, following his gaze. “Oh, that’s Maureen. She’s a writer. She told me once about her book. Pirates, a time traveling witch…sounds exciting. I hope she’ll let me read it one day. Said she’d dedicate it to all of us here. If she ever finds a publisher!”
“That’s does sound like an intriguing story,” he chuckled. The barista wandered away, he sipped at his coffee and studied the would-be author. His wife liked pirates, he’d be doing it for her… Taking the situation in hand, he stood up, strode with purpose to the author’s table and sat down, “Good morning.”
She glanced up at him, looking a bit distracted. She blinked, “Uh…good morning. Can I help you?”
“I’m good, but I may be able to help you,” he held out one of his business cards. “I hear you have a pirate book you’re hoping to see published…”
She took the card, reading it with some disbelief. Paul Winterfield – Literary Agent, New York, New York
“I can help. Let’s talk…” he smiled.
Slowly, she smiled back at him. She’d always told Judi she wanted to be discovered in her local Starbucks…
OK, that’s my big fantasy of discovery. Let’s hear what you’d ask Mr. Rourke to devise for you. Come on, dream big. Be outrageous, be imaginative. Let Fantasy Island make all your dreams come true… And if you don’t dream of being published, but meeting the author of your dreams…what is that dream? Nora in the elevator? Sitting next to Kim Harrison on a 4 hour flight? Anything is possible!
Trivia(l) Pursuits
Confession: I spend a lot more time researching my current paranormal than I did my historical. I didn't mind the research for the historical. There are a lot of cool and interesting things to know about the Regency period. About any period, in fact. But this research has been a lot more up my alley.
Obviously, I think that's just the nature of research. People find different things interesting. While I was writing my historical, I came into contact with a whole slew of people who could chat happily about the lace on petticoats. While I loved the political aspects of the period and the social aspects, that part left me cold.
Here's a bunch of the cool stuff I've learned during this book's research:
- The Great Flood isn't just in Judeo-Christian ideologies but also in Hinduism, Buddhism, and Islam and can be found back as far as the earliest writings in Sumerian.
- Sumerian is the first form of written language (3100BC), followed by Egyptian (2700BC)
- Research shows that a gene called FOXP2 appeared in human biology sometime between 100000 and 50000 BC and may be linked with human's ability to communicate. They still don't know if communication happened suddenly or gradually though, during this time.
- According to Rabbinical Literature, King Solomon was given the ability to control demons.
- King Solomon was also said to possess a flying carpet that was 60 miles square.
- There are lots of examples of gender equality in Egyptian culture, including Egyptian pharaohs and warriors. It wasn't uncommon for a wife to take over a man's troops if her husband was killed.
- Roman gladiators had a longer life expectancy than the average Roman. 30 years and 25 years respectively.
- The only archangel named to be an archangel in the Bible is Michael (Jude). Gabriel and Raphael are considered to be archangels (mentioned in Luke and Tobit, respectively) and Uriel is in the Book of Enoch.
- The Book of Enoch isn't recognized as part of the canon of most Christian churches, but it's referenced explicitly in Jude and many biblical scholars believe that the New Testament writers would have been familiar with it and were influenced by it.
Neat, huh?
What kind of cool stuff have you learned while researching your writing? Share your interesting tidbits! How do you feel about research? Do you love it or would you just rather write already?
Terms of Endearment
I’m a nickname girl. Maybe it’s a part of my culture but I grew up with nicknames (good and bad) and I find myself calling others by nicknames instead of their own names. Even as a little ninja my first memories are by the name of Toots. My daddy has called me Toots since I was knee high to a grasshopper. I know when I’m in trouble because I’m called by my full name (and it’s a mouthful). I know when someone is trying to sweet talk me it’s “C’mon baby.” I know that when the exasperated “Kid” comes into play, the look comes out to say, “You gotta be kidding me. You’re barely older than me.”
Fact of the matter is, I know on the daily basis who is talking to me based on what they call me. Nicknames are a common part of my life and I’m a firm believer anything that’s a part of my life needs to be a part of my characters.
Bright eyes has always been a favorite of mine to write. Granted, I’ve used this one with specific character describing the heroine he can’t have. For me, the endearment is perfect for a guy who’s specifically drawn to a woman whose eyes really sparkle when they look at him. Her eyes are what he sees every night before he goes to sleep. She’s on his mind constantly. I've recently revamped the bright eyes and rethought the process behind who I'm using it for. It suits someone else perfectly.
The nickname usually is a reflection of the character’s personality and the relationship between the nicknamer and the nicknamed. I know sweetheart and baby are two very common endearments. I like the odd ball ones. Wildcat is Ash’s nickname for Sadie. Bright eyes is Fallon’s endearment for Cin. Both are very personal nicknames between them. Wildcat because Sadie is always on the attack when Ash comes near her. Bright eyes because Cin’s eyes gives away her parentage, it’s a source of embarrassment for her, but Fallon sees it as one of the best parts about her.
So, do you use nicknames in your writing and if so, which sort of nicknames do you like to use? Do you like nicknames in the fiction you read?
Will the real writers please step up?
*Coxswain clears her throat, looks around nervously, and tries again*
"Arrghheighehhk"
*Coxswain looks in dismay at all the pirates, going around their scallywagging and double-fisting glittery hoo-haas without the slightest attention. She shimmies to the top of the mast, does a martini-spin all the way down, then lands in a heap at the bottom.*
"What's she doing?" Terri whispers to Cap'n.
"I think she's trying to pole-dance," Hellion answers.
"Oh god," Sin says. "Maybe she needs more lessons."
*Coxswain leaps to her feet and dusts off her hands.* "I was trying to get your attention. Didn't you hear me?"
"Were you trying to say Arrgh?" Lisa asks.
"We just thought you were chocking," Sin says."
"It's okay, honey," Marn says. "You can be a pirate even if you can't say Arrgh yet."
---------------
As many of you know, I'm a new pirate, and strangely, my experience of being a new student is much like my experience being a new pirate.
On the first day, during the orientation, our professor sits all of us new students down in rows and looks at our shiny, eager faces. "You all want to be writers," he says.
In unison, we all nod frantically. "Yes, of course we want to write. We're willing to do anything. Learn anything. That's why we're here."
"I want you to think long term," he says. "Think back ten years ago, and think ten years from now." He pauses and looks at our still shiny, smiling faces. Then he drops the bomb. "Because I know that each of you in here knew you wanted to be a writer ten years ago, or you wouldn't be here today."
Twelve heads bob in unison. Mine is the only head that stops bobbing. Ten years? I think in a panic. Oh no! I didn't know I wanted to be a writer ten years ago. What if I'm not a real writer? What if I don't belong here?
"And think forward," the professor says. "What will you be doing ten years from now? Will you be writing?"
This time, I nod my head vigorously as every other baby-writer in the room. This question I can answer, because I know for sure I will still be writing ten years from now. Published or unpublished, rich and famous, or few enough fans I can thank them all personally, it doesn't matter. I'll still be pulgging away at the keyboard.
This conversation, as I'm sure you've guessed, got me thinking about what it means to be a real writer. There are criteria out there, of course. To be RWA PRO, you have to have submitted a full manuscript; to be PAN, you must have earned at least a thousand dollars on a single book. To be a member of the Writer's Guild, you must have published at least twice. But do any of these criteria make one a more real writer than anyone else?
Of course not! A writer is someone who writes. So I calmed down in my orientation, realized that even if I couldn't have definitively said ten years ago, "I want to be a writer," it didn't matter. And if I keep at it, the day will come when I can answer the question, "So what do you do?" with "I'm a writer," instead of fumbling for a one-word description of my day job.
So just for fun, where were you ten years ago? Do you have any personal criteria for being a writer, or answering the question "What do you do?" with the phrase, "I am a writer."? How about ten years from now - any expectations? (personally, I'm holding out for the jet pack. All pirates need jet packs. Right?)
Books by the Crew
