Well, the good news is out. I just signed a two book contract with Decadent, for the rest of the kraken’s Caribbean trilogy. I’ve already delivered the initial draft of The Chameleon Goggles, but expect to be dealing with edits and edits and edits on it. Which is good. Last time I learned a great deal and I’m hoping my edits will be less because I learned so much.

Knock on wood.

*clunk, clunk

Now, I’m working on the third book and have about 15k done. I want to shoot for around 70k, so there is work to be done. My agent gave them a date about mid June, but I hope to see it in their hands by the end of May. I know how fast e-publishing works!

 

Now, in The Kraken’s Caribbean, I stuck to two POVs. Mostly deep third. (Ideally.) The hero and the heroine. Until I slipped a third POV in toward the end. That of the hero for the next book. Added him, then let him slip away and returned to the H/H.

In The Chameleon Goggles, I had the new hero. His heroine and … Emily from the first book. (She was needed!) By the end, it was all H/H.

 

Now, the third, The Pirate Circus. Well, I have the H/H, of course. Janey was part of the first two books, her hero is a brand new character, though he is related to the hero of book one, Captain Silvestri. And the hero from book one also…I use his POV.

Now, don’t hit me! I’m not head-hopping, I need Silvestri the elder or there will be gaping holes in the plot. But his POV will fade to almost nothing in the middle third of the book and only slip back in at the very end as part of the climax. The problem I’m having is this rotten 14 year old girl that plays a major part in the crises that brings the H/H together. Her identity issues are a huge part of things with the villain of the piece.

And I find I want to include her POV.

 

Sigh.

Can I get away with it? If Silvestri Sr. is ‘off camera’ for the middle third of the book and really only seen partially in the climax…can I let Lee show what she goes through? Should I? I mean, if I don’t use her the sense of urgency might be lost.

It’s not like I want to write like a 14 year old. Heaven knows, angst isn’t my strength. I fear if I don’t sneak her experiences ‘off camera’ into the action, the H/H aren’t going to … wait…it’s not like they’ll be able to read what she’s going through…

Damn. How am I gonna do this?

Okay, looks like maybe I’m going to have to settle for something like a letter from her to explain why they need to hurry before she does something really heinous in her drive to solve her identity issues. Maybe a diary…or someone who gets away from the Circus and warns them of what Lee is mixed up in…

ARGH!

No, it’s not an argh. I didn’t want to write the 14 year olds POV… Maybe I could toss in a tiny bit of villain POV… No!

Stop it!

Just write it with the three you have!

*LALALALALALALALA!

I’m not listening!!!!

*pant, pant…

Sometimes the biggest problem with ignoring the rules is the temptation to not just bend them, but break them into little tiny pieces and so destroy the very framework needed to make a story work.

Lesson learned. I hope.

How many POVs are bad? Not necessarily wrong, but bad-bad. What do you think?

I know, the wedding. We'll see how many are serious about this blog and how many are wedding serious! HA! I'll be here all day. By myself if necessary.

The Bo’sun clued me in that tomorrow is the Captain’s birthday.  She’s all quiet about it, like she expected us not to notice.  But, she doesn't give us enough credit.

We may be a bit rowdy, we may drink and eat a bit of chocolate, we might even get a bit sassy now and again.  But we never miss a reason to celebrate.

Huzzah, Captain!  Happy 29^th Birthday!  Again.

So, in honor of the Captain, what would you bring to a party in honor of our Hellion? Anything you’d like, be creative.  (It’s virtual, so you don’t even have to worry about how heavy it is.)

And if you could get one birthday gift, what would it be? And let’s not pull that “health for all my loved ones” stuff.  I know we all want world peace and would use a real wish in some altruistic and selfless manner.  But today, let's just pretend.  Physical gifts only please!

 

2^nd Chance here, stepping in fer the Bo’sun, who is having some rough days, health wise…so I answered the call! It will be the Bo’sun on Friday!

Naming characters. I stumble a bit on this. I tend to like old fashioned sounding names, and I tend to reach for names that reflect a character’s background or personality.

But this doesn’t always ring right for me. I like old fashioned names and what I think of a certain name isn’t what someone else thinks. I want characters I like to have a name I like and associate with some key triggers. For me.

The problem with picking names this way is the simple problem that 1) that name has a meaning totally different than my association and that is what a reader is going to look up or 2) that name has a meaning totally different than my association because the reader has an association totally at odds with my association.

*blink, blink

No, I did mean what I said up there. It’s all about how I’m not terrible fond of characters named Tina. Why? I’m not sure, but I think it’s just how I wasn’t the cute little thing in school that the name Tina makes me think of. And I was reminded of this a lot. (Kids are naturally cruel, ya know?)

I’ve managed to defeat this problem for the most part. I’ve had relatives that just thinking of them makes me flinch away and grimace, and yet I can read their names in a book and not automatically hate the characters. But it takes work sometimes.

My Mom asked me a few weeks ago why I named my lead in The Kraken’s Mirror, Emily. And my reply? Well, no particular reason other than I wanted a nice old fashioned names and I have a fondness of names that end with a vowel sound. (Really, I do. Witness… Miranda, Ivy, Emily, Silvestri, Maura, Johnny…Leo, Tabitha, ) (I also seem to veer toward names that end in ‘S’ making the possessive case always an interesting  thing to spell.)

Mom sort of sighed. “You know that was the name of Granny.”

I did not know that! At least not consciously. But I thought it a neat detail and I may start lying and say that’s where I got the name.

Yup, I like names like James, Thomas, Matthew, Lucas…Charles… Actually more for the men than the female. Other than Emily I tend toward names for the female characters be more traits driven. What do you think when you hear the name Jezebel? And when I tell you she was christened Jasmina but changed it herself? Ivy came from the vision of poison ivy. Miranda? Well, it’s a name I associate with magic. Not exactly sure why…

My first book has three females that play prominent roles. Miranda, Margaret and Mercedes. I didn’t even realize I’d started all three with an “M” until it was pointed out to me. (I’ve been working on new names for two of these ladies. I sorta like Christina for Margaret, or Virginia. Mercedes? Well, she’s a pirate and her name shortened is Mercy, and I loved the irony in that, so she’s been harder. She’s Spanish so I could go for something like Beneficia…something I can shorten to sound really opposite of how she is… How about Charity? I need to come up with a good Spanish sounding name that I can shorten to Charity… Where is that Spanish/English dictionary…?)

;-)

So, how do you pick names?

 

*Sin rummages through a wooden chest and starts throwing things out over her head*

 

-Ter- “What the hell is she doing?”

 

-Marn- “I think she’s looking for the glitter.”

 

-Lis- *puts her hand over her eyes and grimaces* "Or she's looking for the missing part of her skirt. Full moon alert."

 

*Pirates are snorting with laughter*

 

-Hellion- *eye roll at the mess* “Maybe she lost Ranger in that mess.”

 

*Sin shoots Hellion the death stare from over her shoulder* “Don’t go there.”

 

The pile of junk grew higher and higher until it started to sway in the wind. Lightening cracked over the sky and Sin’s triumphant battle cry echoed over the sea. “Ah-ha! I found it.”

 

She held it in the air, almost like a scene right out of Lion King. It was solid black. Marabou feathers adorned the edges of wood, silver glitter puff paint on the top spelled out “Sin”. Sin brushed it off and blew on it until all traces of dust were gone.

 

“This,” Sin said, strutting away from the pile of junk in the middle of the top deck. “I’ve been looking for this everywhere. I can’t have a proper soapbox rant without my soapbox.”

 

I don’t need a microphone for what I’m about to say. In fact, if you’re past the point of listening to soapboxes, you might want to skip to the bold print below. It’s about to get ugly ‘round here.

 

I am a faithful reader. I have been since I was old enough to learn what I liked and disliked about books. The first time I realized I loved romance novels, it was an accident. Purely accidently. The historical was mixed in with the pre-teen books. I fell in love with the cover art of a castle on the cliff, a girl with black hair and gorgeous blue eyes being swept away into the sea. I picked it up and snuck it home. I poured over the pages of that book. The second time I got my hands on a romance novel, it was a contemporary (I didn’t know it at the time) and it bored the living socks off me. The difference between the two books was the writing. The author. The amount of feeling and passion and emotion put into the words behind every sentence.

 

I’m drawn to books that pull me in and make me feel like I’m there. Does that make me crazy? Maybe, but the jury’s been out on that a long time now.

 

Lately I find myself falling off the bandwagon of faithful readership. Why you might ask? Well, I love authors. I realize the more I meet regardless if it’s in person or through email or interaction online that they are people too. They are just like you, the reader, even though they are the author. They know how to appreciate their readers because they treat them HOW they’d want to be treated if the role was reversed. But it only takes one author to ruin the whole apple cart. One author to act like an ass and pretend like it’s okay to offend her readers because her readership is so vast, who cares if it upsets someone or a group of people who read her books.

 

I am NOT crazy. I’m offended that you, the author of the series about a character you created and the readers who happen to love this character you’ve created, deems them crazy. That seems a little redundant to me. Shouldn’t you be thrilled that you have readers who love anything you create?

 

Maybe that’s the problem. Yup, I’ve hit the nail on the head.

 

Now, I’m not going to name names. Trust me, I want to in the worst way. This author has been on my $*#T list for the past two years now. It’s okay to flaunt that you think you’re readers will pick up and read anything you put out. It’s okay to not give a flying @u*k about story integrity.  Where is the loyalty to your readers! The people who put money in your pocket and keep you an author! That’s right! An author !! That’s why you started writing in the first place, wasn’t it?! Have you forgotten already that it takes readers to keep you being an author? And if you don’t want it anymore- STOP writing.

 

I know I’ve stopped buying.

 

At this point, there is nothing this author can do to make me want to buy or read another one of her books. She has pushed me so far past my tolerance line that all I do now is hope and pray that other readers will eventually come to the conclusion she just doesn’t give a $*#T anymore.

 

And I don’t either. I’m done.

 

*Sin saunters over to her wooden chest and places the soapbox neatly at the bottom. Then quietly closes the top, leaving the rest of the crap out*

 

We’re not going to name names today. In fact, I’ve probably manage to offend tons of people with this blog. I can’t say I’m sorry.  I want to know what you think about authors. Have you ever met an author (online or in person) who seemed very dismissive and it killed your desire to read their books?  Any really great author/reader stories to share today?

 

Remember NO NAMES!

Influenced by this week:  I don't give a f**k, Lil Jon and the Eastside Boys- Kings of Crunk

 

 

Word.

 

It’s almost been a year since I started writing a blog at least once a week. Doesn’t seem like time should’ve flown by that fast. When I was little, a month would drag by. Summers seemed to last forever, and the time between Labor Day and Christmas was the longest stretch of time ever. Now, I can’t breathe without three months passing me by faster than I can snap my fingers.

 

I’ve learned a lot from the blogs this past year. It’s funny how we can all talk about one subject and have a different outcome that makes sense. I’ve also learned that life is meant to be lived to have fun, enjoy yourself and those around you. And not to mention, life is lived so that you can live it a different way through your writing.

 

Writing, for me, is an exercise in clearing my conscience. Redoing things I wished I’d done different, living life vicariously through my main characters. It’s one of the best things about writing a story. You are someone different when looking through a different POV. I give myself up to the feelings of first love, betrayal of someone closest to you, deceit, lying, cheating, begging, and relying on no one but myself. All these emotions claw their way to the surface when on the page. But also, writing teaches you a lot about yourself. Things you keep firmly locked away seem to bubble up until you’re unable to lock it away anymore.

 

Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. The best way to get it over with is to just get it out.

 

For the writing, the life of the character is everlasting until that last page when you have to say goodbye and move on. It’s not painful to say goodbye to a good story when you know you’ve given them the right ending. But what happens if life gets in the way of that happily ever after ending and the story must go on through a new POV?  It’s hard to let go then because you know somewhere in the story it went wrong. Your emotions swung the story onto the path less taken and no matter how hard you try; you can’t find your way back. That’s life breathing through your writing. My writing holds more emotion when I write this way. It’s painful for me, but I like the end result. This makes me think about life more often and how short it really is. How sometimes the most important things to us get swept aside in our quest to have bigger and better things. Makes me think about what we have to sacrifice to have what we think we want instead of just what we need. When I write, life is simpler. It’s as easy as that.

 

I have a theme song for writing. I’ve loved this song for so long that even when I haven’t listened to it for a while, I can still sing it without missing a beat. Love unrequited except for a single night. Lovers who can’t find a way to be together and each second they can spend together draws them further apart. The song is so heartbreaking to listen to but it’s hypnotic. I use this song when I need help remembering what’s worth sacrificing in life, in writing. I think about what it would be like to look at someone from across the room and pretend I didn’t know them. To walk past them and remember the way his fingers felt on my naked skin, the way he looked in the moonlight and the stars shining in his eyes and the way it felt when he kissed me goodbye. It’s that type of emotion that traps a reader and makes them turn the page and I needed to be reminded of that.

 

What sort of life do you put into your writing? Readers, do you find yourself reading a certain type of book based on what kind of story is being told? If you don’t fancy those questions, I’m curious about music. What kind of theme song would you give your life?

Or what I like to call pantsing it when you have no idea what’s going on.

 

 

Inspired by a Sunday morning impromptu dance off, I come to you live from my living room where Mattycakes is busting a move. I’m filling in for the Bo’sun today and you will have to bear with my crazy weekend antics. This is why they don’t let me blog Mondays.

 

We like to dance. Every Sunday morning, Mattycakes and I schedule a little dancing time. It’s our way of spending time with one another since we don’t see much of each other on the weekdays. I stay up extremely late on Saturday nights to write and then get up all goofified from lack of sleep. This is when the dancing gets wild.

 

We’ve spent a lot of time thinking up specialty moves that are unique to us. We turn on the radio in the kitchen and bust a move. We have something we call the lawn mower and the row boat with a little of the offset arm action to compliment each other. Then we go our own ways. Usually this is the moonwalk from me and the booty shake from Mattycakes before we move back to do a little of the freak boy made popular mostly by Too Short in the ‘90’s. You know, where the girl does the freak against the boy and the boy’s got his hand in the air like he’s a pimp or maybe that’s more popular now since the Lil Jon era. Anyways, then we go straight into interpretive dance. I call this my pantsing. This gets my brain warmed up. I love to dance. I’m not exactly the most graceful person in the room.

 

Mattycakes is good at the pansting. He’s actually quite creative. Today’s dance off was inspired by “So You Think You Can Dance”. I make Mattycakes suffer through this two hour affair every Wednesday night. What he calls his interpretive dance number is mostly moves he’s seen in movies. Which to watch a man who’s every bit of 6’4” and looks like a tank, try to move like a dancer is hilarious. But we have a different kind of humor here. Mostly us just jumping around like ballerinas and twiggy cheerleaders. Not a pretty sight.

 

I bet you’re wondering what this has to do with writing. I know Hellion is sitting on her treasure chest, chewing on the end of her dagger and trying to rationalize throwing it at me.

 

Just so you know, daggers hurt, babe. That’s why we’ve got a life size poster of Capt’n Jack. That’s supposed to be for target practice not me.

 

I went to the school of pantsing. Well, I did until I got tired of going and made up excuses not to go. For me, knowing the story before it unfolds on the page is boring. I like to go in several different directions when I write and if I’m set to one thing, it’s certain I’ll go another. The road less traveled is the one I enjoy the most.

 

Mattycakes and the dancing have really taught me a lot about writing. And no that’s not the lack of sleep talking.

 

I get an idea in my mind and I go somewhere with it. Just when I think I know what’s going to happen next, I throw a screwball in there and change it up. Dancing is just like that. You have to anticipate your partner’s moves and think up your next one.  It flows together even when you had no idea what was coming next. And if it doesn’t you move forward and interpret what to do next.

 

Just like dancing with a partner, you have to know your characters in order to pants. I’ve always thought pantsing is more of a character driven way of writing. You let the characters tell you what direction to head in next. Let them tell the story the way it was meant to be told. Sometimes, they aren’t sure either but that’s when you throw the screwball in, the kidnapping attempt. The phone threat. The stalker. The ex-girlfriend. The baby. Whatever.

 

Do what’s best for your story and you’re the only one who knows that. Learn to rely on instinct. It’s like an adrenaline rush each time you open a new page.

 

 

So today let’s discuss methods of writing. What crazy thing do you do to get into the mood to write? And if you’re a reader, do you have a method to your wicked reading ways?

It was dark by the time I walked through the door. Seven o’clock. You wouldn’t think that was overly late but it wasn’t yet spring in Missouri and time hadn’t reverted back to borrowing time to make it light longer.

 

I dropped my keys in my purse. I had a major headache going on. I’d just finished Eleven on Top by Janet Evanovich this morning before work and then ending was still bugging me. I went into the kitchen and flipped on the light, finding the book on my desk, I popped it open to the last 30 pages. It was a quick read for me. I had almost every line memorized. The way Ranger finds Stephanie crammed into an overhead cabinet. The way their eyes met. The way he kisses her bloody wrists. The emotion I felt in those few short paragraphs was killing me. How could she not be with him?

 

Matty popped his head around the corner and I closed the book with a sharp snap.

 

“You wanna watch a movie?”

 

“Sure.”

 

Blow was the choice movie. We’d seen it at least a dozen times before. We sat on the couch together in the dark, eyes focused on the TV and still my mind wandered. I couldn’t get that scene out of my head. I knew there wasn’t another book. I’d checked a million times at the library. No new book for a few more months. I surely was going to die with longing to know what happened next. What if they didn’t get together in the next book? What about that look? How could she not see what I see?

 

There was only one way to fix this in my mind. I had to just get it out. I had to write. But how the hell was I going to do that? I had no idea what I was doing. I didn’t even have a notebook to write on.

 

You know what will happen in the next book, don’t you? There it was. That little voice. Poking me. Prodding me. They won’t be together. What are you going to do then? What if he brushes a curl behind her ear and walks away. What if there wasn’t another book?

 

I had to fix this problem. It was driving me nuts. I had printer paper. As soon as Matty went to bed, I was going to find a pen and just write something. Who cared if it made sense. No one would ever see it but me. No one would have to know what I’d done. Surely I’d lost my mind. No character had ever come to life for me like Ranger and Stephanie on a page. There was something about the way they looked at each other.

 

I looked up at Matty sitting beside me on the couch and he happened to look down at me the same time. The glow from the TV was perfect on his smiling face and I knew why I was addicted. Matty was my Ranger. And I had to let Stephanie see that. Somehow.

 

That settled it. I had to do something. So I patiently waited. I fidgeted. I chewed on my thumbnail. I got up and walked around. I did the dishes. And finally, it was midnight. Way past our bedtime. I smiled all the way up the stairs. I thought of the way I wanted to write. What I was going to write. It was going to be perfect. And finally I’d be able to have some peace and quiet.

 

It was one am. I tossed back the blankets and crept down the stairs. The house was eerily silent in the hush of night and I was slightly creped out that I had the guts to walk down into the kitchen. I pulled a couple of sheets from the print and found an old ink pen. I slid into a kitchen table chair and sat there.

 

No words came to me.

 

I put my head in my hands. This was the worst feeling. I knew it was there. Why couldn’t I write it now?

 

“I glanced into the mirror. The black mini dress molded to every curve and made me feel slightly self-conscience. I could do this, I reminded myself. It’s not like I’d never done a distraction for Ranger before. Piece of cake, right?”

 

My god! What is that?! I read over it. “What the hell is this?” I ask myself. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m just going to go with this until I get to the scene where she throws herself into his arms and kisses him like she’s never kissed someone before and swear that she loves him.

 

I put my ink pen back to the paper. My fingers flew through sheets of paper. My hand would cramp and I rubbed it out, a mad gleam in my eye as I tried to remember everything flowing through my mind. I finally got to the end. By no means did Stephanie throw herself into his arms. She backed him into a wall and wrapped a leg around his thigh. She drew him into her, pressed herself against every hard inch of him and brushed her lips over his. And as quickly as she did that, she walked away from him.

 

WTF am I writing? I asked myself, reading back over it. I was cross-eyed. Delirious. I glanced back at the microwave clock and rubbed my eyes. It was almost six am!

 

I shoved the papers into my desk, underneath the keyboard covered in three inches of dust and dropped the cover over them. I hustled back upstairs and fell into bed, asleep before my head even hit the pillow.

 

Eight AM comes very early to someone on two hours of sleep.

 

I wrote about 40 pages of Mission: Distraction (which wasn't what I ended posting and at this point wasn't even titled), before I ever had the nerve to type it up. I knew how to type. I was a computer major in college. I type faster than my brain can keep up. But there was something very intimidating about the computer. I felt very phony. And I dared to breathe a word of my obsession to my younger sister- who at the time was very obsessed with Sailor Moon (Anime) fan fiction.

 

“You should post it.”

 

“NO!” I shook my head violently side to side. “No way. I’m too old for that crap. I don’t know why I wrote it. Surely I’ll get sued.”

 

“No way, dude. There’s a ton of stuff out there.” She pulled up her email account. “Listen. What do you have to lose? I’ll email you the site link to that fan fiction site.”

 

I made myself sick on the way home. Post it? Was she insane? Clearly she was because she was in the same family as me, but I couldn’t post this. I didn’t own these characters. People would make fun of me. They would KNOW it was me.

 

Wouldn’t they?

 

When I was in high school, I was being a smart ass to my English teacher and in my goal for what I wanted to do after high school I put: I’m going to be on the top of the NYT someday.

 

My English teacher thought this was brilliant. I laughed in her face. I hate writing. Why would I ever write for fun?

 

What did I have to lose?  Everything, I swore to myself. Okay so that might be a little melodramatic. But surely I’m too old to post “fan fiction” as my sister liked to refer to it as. And still, this writing thing was still in my head. I had to write something else. She was still talking to me. Telling me where she wanted to go next. Telling me what she wanted to do. This wasn’t good. I was obsessed!

 

I got home in a mood. The night was ruined. My stomach was churning. I might have sweated a little bit. I pulled up the email account and sure enough, there was an email from my sister.

 

Hey. I checked into that for you. You have to sign up for a penname

and there’s a three day wait. If you want to sign up, do it now before

you have a chance to think about it.

Buck up. Don’t be a chickenshit.

 

And at the bottom was the link to the site. I sweated it out for a minute. Palms sweaty. Mouth drier than the Mohave. Knees knocking. Did I dare click on it? I’m known for doing crap that I wished I hadn’t. I’m too impulsive for my own good. I mean, look where this reading thing got me! I knew I shouldn’t have picked up that book Janine told me too. “Just read this book. I know you’ll like it.” I shook my head politely NO. I’m not into those sorts of books. I told her. I like historicals. “No. NO. No. You’ll love this. Stephanie Plum is a riot. This is the eighth book. You don’t have to read them in order. I really think you’ll enjoy it.” Still I shake my head no. I hold this woman off for two years on this Stephanie Plum book obsession she had going on. And then I caved and now it has me getting up in the middle of the night like a thief and stealing downstairs to write like a mad woman until dawn.

 

So I click on the link. Fanfiction.net. It seems pretty harmless. There’s something like 10 pages to browse through of Stephanie Plum fan fiction. I read one. Someone rewrote the last scene in Eleven on Top in Ranger’s POV. I fell in love. I read this story about a million times. Never would I have ever thought to write in another POV. Stephanie felt natural to me, but this writer made Ranger come alive in front of my eyes. I felt his desperation. I felt his hunger for revenge. I felt his overwhelming moment of relief to find her alive. I was looking through his eyes and seeing the tears brushing along her lower lashes. Knew she thought she was going to die. Knew that she kept telling herself over and over again that he’d save her.

 

And in that moment I knew what I had to do. I went to the sign in page and filled out the necessary information. No one would ever know me. No one would know it was ME. I could do this anonymously.

 

No one would ever find out!

 

Wrong. I’m at something close to 35 fan fiction stories for Stephanie Plum two years later. Two full length stories under my belt, two novellas, and dozens of short stories. Fan fiction gave me the courage to try to write something of my own. Gave me the courage to reach out to other people, other writers and talk to them. Helped me meet women who I’ll never forget, who I’ll always be friends with, and gave me more sisters. Partners in crime.

 

So, I know that was long. I’m getting back into the old habit of long-windedness.

 

Tell me about your first time writing. The first time you wrote a scene you never thought you’d be able to write. The first time you wrote anything. Did it come out the way you wanted it or was it something completely different from what you envisioned? For our reading wenches, how about the first time you found a community for your favorite author? Did you have a hard time just jumping in there?

A little rum-soused undead monkey told me our very own Lisa is having a birthday today! Please join us in wishing her a Happy Birthday. (All gifts of rum and money can be directed to the Captain who will pass them along to Lisa....)



 

Captain Jack says because it is such a special occasion, we should put up more pictures for the lovely Lisa to enjoy--and he did offer himself (nude) for everyone's, um, viewing pleasure, but since I'm the captain, I thought I'd post these instead:

                  

 



     

‘Ello me hearty mates and crew. Today we’re going to do a little elementary compass navigation and orientation. (No, Jack my love, not sexual orientation; you are prickly. And no, Sin, I’m not dumping anyone off into the middle of the woods and saying, “Well, see you at supper!” and then giving you a merit badge if you arrive back without being covered in poison ivy.)

 

No, I speak of: Writing Orientation. How to get your bearings in your book, head off again in the right direction (i.e. start writing again) and arrive at your destination (i.e. HEA) sometime before your supplies (i.e. the rum) run out. A handy device all pirates need if they find themselves marooned…or possibly in a hurricane in which they think their ship is going to sink.

 

First and most important, find due NORTH. You won’t get your bearings or headings or anything until you’ve got your center. Your due NORTH is two things: characters and goals. So if you’re ever stuck, flailing about, sitting in Doldrums and wondering if a brisk wind will come again, find due NORTH. Remember where you are going and put it in contrast with where you are now. Just like NORTH is the most important of the four, your characters and their goals are the most important part of your story. They are the story. Are your characters still behaving true to themselves? Are they pursuing their goals for all they’re worth? Like NORTH, are they bigger and bolder than everything else (i.e. plot, secondary characters)? Are you keeping your scenes (like your sails) trim? If the scenes you’re putting on the page aren’t necessary to the characters or the goals, then they’re most likely dross that’s weighing down your ship and sailing you the long way to China.

 

 

Once you’ve got NORTH, glance behind you to the SOUTH. Notice this. There is no North without South, no love without hate, no peace without war, no romance without heartbreak. Here in the SOUTH lies conflict and irony. While your NORTH is focusing on character and goals, the SOUTH should be raising hell on the NORTH, making everyone wonder which side is going to win. (Am I the only one hearing “Dixie”?) Conflict keeps your characters and their goals in sharp desire. And while you’re at it, make sure some of your conflict is of the ironic variety. If your heroine hates class reunions and hell would freeze over before she attended one, make her go to accomplish something that is very important to her, more important than her fear and hatred of confronting her demons. Irony sticks. Irony is conflict inflicted by method of laughing gas.

 

So we got the NORTH and SOUTH opposing each other; take a look over your right shoulder to the EAST. Venus the Morningstar is your guide. So our next important bearing: Love. Love is important since you need conflict for your Conflict, and nothing conflicts Conflict more than Love. (One of those ironic things again.) Clearly if you’re writing a romance, love is a main bearing. Make it big, make it count, and make it believable. We all need the Big 3: Faith, Hope, and Love, but most of all Love. John said it first; then the other John made a song about it. Notice, though, Love is not the sole focus of your story, nor the biggest focus—but it does shine the brightest.

 

Now look WEST, young man, look WEST. What good is the WEST? Why the ending, of course. We all admire the perfect sunset, and though it may be the same sun, no two are the same. The same is true of your happily ever after. Yes, it’s romance; yes, it’s a happy ending; yes, there are a 100 Regencies published a year—but your Happily Ever After is just as beautiful, just as unique as the thousand other sunsets across the world. Someone will enjoy seeing it; someone will be moved by it; someone will even remember it forever. And the thing about sunsets is you never get tired of seeing them and marveling at how beautiful they are—and how at peace with the world they make us feel. Write your happy ending; do it to make the world a little sweeter.

 

All right. Got your bearings now? Have you found your characters and goals? Is the SOUTH rising again? (Lisa, Sin, get your minds out of the gutter.) Have you put on that Beatles CD and a little song in your heart? Then start cracking toward that Happy Ending, mates. Head West to your destination.

 

What do you guys think? Any important headings I should have focused on instead? Anyone else dallied in filing their taxes like I did and are running to the post office after work like a chicken with its head cut off? Anyone else able to orientate themselves with a compass? (Me, I use the sun rather than magnets.)