“Galley Ho here. Reporting to you from the ship’s galley where I am preparing a special dinner for a very special guest. I’m sooo excited that Santa O’Byrne, NYT bestselling author, has agreed to have dinner with me here in the galley. “

“I’ve prepared a mouth watering pork roast seasoned with grated parmesan reggiano cheese, crushed garlic and parsley, along with rosemary roasted new potatoes and tender  baby  asparagus grilled to perfection and drizzled with 45 year old balsamic vinegar and first pressed olive oil.”

“What? No, this is a special menu just for Ms. O’Byrne! She’s a gourmand, don’t ya know, and a certified olive oil specialist. She’s even got the pin to prove it. So you know it’s not your ordinary fare for her. Nope, it’s Tuesday so crew’ll be getting breakfast for dinner. Hard tack and powered eggs.  Yum!

“Hellooo! Anyone down below?”

“Oh, my goodness! She’s here. She’s here. Squeeee!! Forgive me my fangirl moment but I’ve read all her books and this is the first time I’ve ever gotten a chance to meet her and…and….”

“Permission to come aboard. Oh, silly me! I’m already aboard, aren’t I?”, Santa O’Byrne (did I mention she was a NYT bestselling author)glides down the narrow stairs into the galley. Her face sparkles like Swarovski crystals in the moonlight. Or maybe it’s just the reflection her crystal encrusted jacket throws off. She is glamorous, poised and sophisticated. Everything you’d expect –did I mention the Times-a best selling author to be.

“Ms. O’Byrne, darling. Please come down. Make yourself at home. Dinner is almost ready.”

“Dinner? I thought I’d be handed a cocktail. Terri Osbourn, we’re pals, got a Frozen Nipple out of the deal yesterday! My assistant said the least I should expect to get was Sex On The Beach. Believe me, I could use some Sex On The Beach.”

“Of course you can have Sex On The Beach. I’ve sent Armitage up to get you some.”

“Thank you, darling. I’m absolutely exhausted. I just got back from the Amalfi Coast in Italy. Research, don’t you know. It was exhausting driving up and down that coastline with nothing to see but pastel colored terracotta homes nestled in the hills facing clear azure waters.”

“Research for your next novel, I hope”  I can’t help the edge of jealousy that taints my voice, “What part does the Amalfi Coast play in your next book?”

“Well, as you know, I have written a series revolving around three female chefs and the men they fall in love with. This, my third and final installation in the series, features Megan a New York City party planner who’s business has gone bust and she has no choice but to accept a position as private chef to an eccentric couple who live on an estate in Minori on the Amalfi Coast.  Feeling liberated for the first time in years, she meets and falls in love with Nico a darkly handsome caretaker on the estate. Her happiness is short lived when Nico betrays her in the basest way possible. All her illusions shattered, Megan loses herself in her cooking, creating masterpiece after masterpiece…for no one until Steve comes to Italy on business. Steve is someone she sparred with in my first novel. They begrudgingly became allies to bring Melissa and Jake back together but not without wanting to tear at each other’s throats.  Steve’s just broken off with his fifth fiancée in two years. Val, his best friend from college, basking in his own HEA with Nola, suggests he get away for a while and he unwittingly ends up at the estate of his great-Aunt and Uncle where Megan is cooking up a storm. In the beginning, they fall right into their safe pattern of jibes and jabs.

But Italy-Italy changes all that. In Italy, they let go of their inhibitions. Their bravado. Their one up manship. In Italy, they learn what true love can be.”

I can’t help but sigh.

“Well, look at me going on and on about my book when all this lovely food is getting cold. It looks and smells divine. Oh, and lest I forget, I’ve got some Sex On The Beach waiting for me.”

So tell me, darlings, where do you think true love is found? On the sun kissed hillsides of Italy? A quaint upstate New York town? New York’s ever changing culinary palate? Or right at home in your own backyards – where ever they may be?

I was limb shaking angry a few days ago and in the midst of that hard, tight feeling I remember thinking – I really should go and write. Right in the middle of it. How absurd is that? To feel such an intense emotion and my fingers were itching to write. I wanted to write the fight scene between my hero and heroine where, at the crux of it, they confront what they are feeling for one another and she challenges him to recognize and accept his feelings.  In a perfect world my laptop and ergonomically correct chair will appear and off I’d go and finally get those ten pages written because, naturally, they fall into bed , their anger transferred to pure lust.

Alas, this is not a perfect world we live in. I had to reign in my anger and move on with my day. I’d get back to writing all that delicious emotion later. I was sure I could somehow recapture the essence of what I had felt and translate that to paper.

The truth of the matter is, I don’t think I ever captured that degree of anger. How do I conjure up that deep an emotion? What memories do I dig into – save the ones just felt earlier in the day – and make them work for me? Should I have engaged in some sort of exercise to make it all come back to me. I mean, I didn’t need to recall the entire incident or the events that led up to me walking around tight from the nape of my neck to the tips of my toes. I just wanted the essence of it. The recollection of the sensations would have been enough for me.

We’ve heard the platitudes.

“Oh, I know exactly how you feel!”

Or

“Well, I can tell you what I’d do if that ever happened to me!”

If you know how I feel or what you would do in my shoes, kindly share those pearls of wisdom with me. Are there exercises that you use to write what can be a pivotal scene in your story? Should I just let go and let ‘er rip and see where the chips fall? I pour my heart and soul into my writing but I’d like to know how that process works for you. Feel free to share parts of your stories that you feel best express an intense level of emotion that both the hero and heroine are feeling. That emotion can be anger, fear, lust, love, terror, anxiety. Consider it a smorgasbord of emotional tidbits.

By: Galley ‘Ho Santa O’Byrne

Summer time and the living is easy.

I’ve always loved that song what with the catfish jumping and all. I’ve always said that my perfect summer getaway would be either an apartment in the Dakota in New York City or a Victorian beach house in Cape May, New Jersey. I have friends whose wives summer in New Jersey and Maryland. They see one another on the weekends. Come to think of it, they have the best marriages I’ve ever seen. Leading me to think - there must be something to this getting away from everyone and everything.

The question is, well, what exactly would I do with my time? Sell seashells by the seashore? Creamsicles on the Boardwalk? None of those hold a particular appeal to me. I don’t think I could do either for an entire season, let alone for years at a time. No, my ultimate fantasy – aside from having a fully stocked, state of the art kitchen- would be to have the time and space to write.

And write.

And write without any of the distractions and attractions of everyday life.

And then I’d invite some of my fellow writers down for a weekend to do what I’ve recently found invaluable to a writer’s life – brainstorming.

That’s right. Brainstorming. Even with the Internet ever at our beck and call writing still remains a solitary endeavor. I don’t know about the rest of you but there are times when I write, edit, re-read and wonder what the heck I was thinking when I started that particular scene or shift in the plot. I touch base with my critique partner but, bless her heart, she’s several hours away and we don’t get a chance to really hash a particular part of the story out. So, it’s back to the laptop at Starbucks for me. It’s the closest thing I can get to being away from it all.

But my mind always turns back to this brainstorming theory. I was working on my first manuscript and while talking to a friend over coffee and via brainstorming she was able to fix the direction her book was going in. At the RWA National Conference in Dallas three years ago, I found myself on several occasions just sitting around with my fellow writers, both unpublished and published, talking plot and characters and tension and it was MARVELOUS.  Most recently while in Washington for this year’s conference an author helped me work through a plot device that I found wasn’t really working for my story. Friends, it was like a revelation. Everything fell into place for me.

Suffice it to say, I highly recommend grasping opportunities to work with fellow writers through some of your books rough spots. I know of several small groups of published authors who take the time to get away for a weekend at a cabin or hotel room to do plotting and brainstorming. I know of a few RWA chapters that sponsor writer retreats for just this purpose to get a room of one’s own to write and brainstorm with others. They claim it does wonders for their writing.

What is your opinion of brainstorming? Does it work for you? Would you put down good money to get away from it all and do nothing but write and plot? Sounds like a plan to me.

RWA National has an electricity attached to it. I can’t say for sure if it’s because, once a year, writers, agents and editors come together in one place. It could be that the opportunity to connect on a human level with others who share a passion for writing about true heroes, strong heroines and their happily ever after. After all, writing is a solitary journey. It’s nice to stop and get charged up about that journey with others writers.

I had a great time at National this year. As, like every year so far, I’ve met some amazing people. I can’t really pinpoint all the highlights of the conference. First and foremost was raising a tankard to Terri completing her BA!! Terri, J Perry, Kim Castillo and I went out to an amazing sushi tapas restaurant. The waitress was one of the friendliest I’ve ever met and, truth be told, the only friendly one I met while in DC. We even got Terri to try a piece of sushi – brave soul that she is!

I could talk about the amazing workshops I attended and one in particular where friends read over the top scenes like pros. I could talk about the pitching I did and partial request I received. I could talk about the literary signing where over 500 authors signed their latest romance novels. Over 500 authors and their fans (it’s open to the public) in one HUGE space. I could also talk about how amazing it was to be a part of a debut author’s launch and the fun of contributing to her buzz. 2010 will be Tessa Dare’s year!

Instead I think I’ll share two of the best experiences of the conference for me.  The first one occurred when I went down to Harry’s Pub for dinner by myself on Friday. While waiting for the waiter to come by and take my order another conference attendee stopped and asked if she could join me for dinner. Here’s where the magic of conference steps in. I had the pleasure of sharing a meal with Pearl Wolf. Pearl is a debut romance author whose book ‘To Hot For A Spy’ is out now. It also turns out she recently joined the NYC chapter of RWA. Without even trying I ran into a chapter mate. We talked craft. We talked the business of publishing. We discussed our children. One of her sons is in the restaurant business which is right up my alley since my books take place in that same industry. My oldest fancies herself another Ace of Cakes. We connected on so many levels just two strangers at a conference sharing a meal.

The second experience and I can’t really call it second best is the brainstorming I did with author Diane Gaston. I have enjoyed Diane’s books from the very first one I picked up when she was writing as Diane Perkins. She is a very talented writer and a very giving writer. We chatted while enjoying a glass of wine with some of the folks over at Risky Regencies. Diane asked about my WIP and I shared with her what my story was all about. I was having a bit of problem with one of the themes of the story and Diane showed me a possible solution. I call this moment my YES moment. Now it all made sense. Now I can get it to flow naturally instead of in a stilted, cliché manner. It was as if the shades were lifted off my eyes.  I was stuck and could finally move forward! This is the hallmark of the generosity that published authors share with writers like me. And it all took place in the context of an informal gathering of blogsite followers.

These two experiences are what I think this conference is all about for me. Connecting with people who are on the same wavelength that you are is so fantastic. To be with people who ‘get it’ and understand the passion you feel about your writing.

I’ve been stuck on the small stuff lately. The little things in life. The stacks of notes, post-its, that make up my life. I write on a tiny table on my laptop which is a computer in miniature. I’ve mastered the art of rapid fire responses on my Blackberry (aka Crackberry) using those miracles of the primate – opposable thumbs whose ode Hawkeye Pierce sang so eloquently on M*A*S*H.

I twitter further challenging me to keep my musings to 140 characters – not even words – characters. Trust me friends, is quite a challenge. My own handle (yes, I harkens from the days of CB and Ham radios) takes up quite a number of characters.

So, you may ask yourself – what does this have to do with writing romance?

Glad you asked.

We are called as authors to keep words to a minimum. Say more with less. Sounds easy enough but why is it so hard to do? Well, I guess I should say – why is it so hard for me to do? Am I a particularly verbose person? Am I a chatterbox? The answer to both these questions is – no. Especially since I’m known to say what I mean and mean what I say.

Why, then, is it so hard for me to do so in my writing? Funny thing is when I first started writing I had to wring the words out. Any writing I did professionally had to be direct and to the point. There is no room for flowery prose when writing psycho-social reports.

So I let myself loose and wrote what my heart saw instead of what my head reported. I think I went overboard.

No.

Scratch that.

I know I went overboard. I was so busy vesting the reader in what the story was about that I didn’t realize I was telling them too much and not showing them enough. 

Yes, folks, the ‘AHA!’ moment. I had to step back from my story and see it through a reader’s eye and show them just what the hell I was talking about. In showing them, the reader, I engage them in the story. They then become a part of that story, living through it as they read it. Hopefully, they’ll feel his hands hold fast to the burnished gold of her hair. See her slow smile as he lowers his lips to her’s.

What say you, pirate lasses? At a loss of words? Are you carrying around excess baggage in your writing? Share how you’ve cleaned up your act. Are there any tricks of the trade that worked for you? Share.

Love is in the air.  Everywhere you look around.

Love is in the air. In every sight and every sound.

And I don’t know if I’ve been dreamin’.

I don’t know if I’ve been blind but there’s something that I can believe in and it’s there when I look in your eyes.”

*“Love Is In The Air” by Lou Rawls is announced by Wolfman Jack on WABC  on your AM dial*

I was in the seventh grade on summer vacation on the beach at Seaside Heights, New Jersey when that song was popular.   You could dance the Hustle to it.  You remember the Hustle?  That scandalous dance where swiveling hips  in bell bottom polyester pants bumped and brushed up against slender hips in a shimmering silver lame’ halter top Yves St. Lauran dress.

That wasn’t me, you understand, in that shimmering silver lame’ Yves St. Lauran dress.  More likely, as not, it was Bianca Jagger or Liza Minelli back in their glory days.

Me? I danced the California Walk –the Electric Slide of its day – in front of the mirror in my room.  Alone.

Fear not, this blog is not going to morph into a pity party for me and my woe begotten days as a teenager, awash in angst and all the accompanying baggage that goes along with it.  I’ve come a long way, baby.  I shook off the dust of those years and rarely look back.  When I do, it’s with a keen awareness of how those days were part and parcel of what shaped who I am today.

Those experiences have also crept into my writing.  That’s not to say my stories, to date, are semi-autobiographical, but I don’t think we can live this life and have it not be a part of the writing process. Any writer will tell you to write is to open oneself as intimately as if opening to a lover. I have to admit that my earliest attempts at writing were cathartic in that I poured my own experiences into the story…a bit too much of them but what they helped do is get all that sophomoric ideals of love out of my writing.  All the angst.  All the frustration. All the juvenile ideals.

Here’s a sample:

The night before she was to leave for college Melissa and her friends decided to crash the end of summer party at Lisa Smythe’s house.  Melissa began to regret coming the minute they arrived.  She agreed to stay long enough for them to make the rounds and get some beers.  From her spot against the wall, Melissa scanned the room hoping to get a glimpse of Jake. 

“God, you’re pathetic”, she muttered to herself and began to make her way to the patio doors. Hopefully, no one would be out there and she’d be able to wait in peace for her friends.

Jake looked up from his beer in time to see Melissa turn to the back of the house.  He couldn’t help but smile.  He started toward the door, intent on following her out there. Finally, he would have a chance to see her again. 

He came upon Melissa sitting on teak bench partially covered by the sweeping branches of a willow tree. Her honey colored eyes were closed as she leaned back against the tree.

“Damn, you’re beautiful.”

Melissa’s eyes flew open. Crap!  She then looked down at the lumps that defined her body and rolled her eyes.

“You’re wasted”

“No, I’m not wasted.  I’ve got a good buzz on though”, he replied as he lowered his six foot three frame onto the bench.  He nearly groaned aloud as the scent of vanilla filled his senses.  She continued to stare at him, her tongue darting out to lick her lips.  She looked delicious and he couldn’t wait to taste her.

And so he did.  His lips brushed hers and the sigh that escaped her lips was an invitation for more.  He pulled her closer and she brought her tongue to his.  His body hardened as never before.

“God Melissa!” he moaned against her lips.

Just then, Lisa’s shrill voice broke through the haze. “Jake, baby, where are you?”

“Fuck!” he muttered

“No thanks, baby!” Melissa mockingly replied, pushing him away.  “Sounds like someone is looking for you.”

Jake struggled to gain control of himself.  He quickly got up in the hopes of keeping Lisa at bay and turning  to ask Melissa to wait found that she was already gone.

“Damn!  She’s done it again!”

“Who’s done it again?” Lisa hissed.

“Ah, no one.” Jake answered and began to propel Lisa back toward the house.

“Yeah, no one!” came Melissa’s anguished whisper from behind the weeping willow. “But not for long!” she vowed.

How do you incorporate your experiences into your writing?  Is it a conscious decision? Does it help or hinder your writing?

It sounds like a simple enough question but think on it for a moment or two.  I’m not talking about the big revelation here where the hero/heroine finally admits to him/herself and, within the next twenty pages her/himself that he/she does indeed love her/him.  (Still with me?) Not only do they have the capacity to love but they allow themselves to love.  That’s all well and good for the Happily Ever After.  It’s one of the by-laws of romance that love is revealed in the hearts and souls of the hero and heroine. That part seems to work out the same way whether you’re reading a historical or contemporary romance.

What I am questioning revolves around the presence or lack thereof of the actual bloom of romance.  The hero and heroine meet, sparks fly, emotions ignite and they end up in bed very quickly and without much preamble.  As for me, I miss the romance of it.  The ‘aha’ moments that transcend the very physical nature of what many romances today seem to push. 

Now, don’t get me wrong.  I’m not just talking about sexual overload.  Some stories warrant it but not every single one.  There are times in books where hot, steamy, mind-bending sex can be just what the doctor ordered but is it enough?   

There are also times that when they aren’t in bed, they’re dodging bullets, bounty hunters, spies, dastardly Lords whose pockets bring them to kidnap, lie and extort.  So with all this shrapnel and gun powder flying around, when do the hero and heroine get the time to fall in love?

How do we as writers write the romance into our books?  What form do you see romance taking in your books?

And, as readers, how much is too much of everything else in the books you’ve read?  Do you miss the romance in your romances or have I just hit upon a few wall bangers in the last few months?

For several weeks I’ve been pondering the role of honor in our society.  I fear we are in dire need of people who are honorable. Maybe I’m jaded by the state of the economy and those people in high places who ran willy-nilly with other people’s money.  For a while there, all you saw or read about were men who used their position and influence to pilfer the fortunes of others. 

Sports heroes are making sport of their position in the world.  Celebrity affairs.  Violence against women and children. Illegal gun possession.  Steroid use.  The list goes on.  I don’t know about other parts of the country but here in the Northeast we were feted with front page coverage not of a historically significant election but of a baseball player who quite literally became too big for his breeches.  If I saw one more expose’ about  A-Rod, I really think I would have tossed my cookies.

As romance writers, we are honor bound, if you will, to present our heroes as honorable as possible. Clearly, we want our heroes to be upright, steadfast in their convictions and true to their family, friends and, most especially, to their ladies.

Even the most hardened of rakes who spend most of the book, if not a series, showing just what a cad he can be transforms into the very definition of honorable.  That’s my favorite kind of hero and if he’s tortured by his evils, even better! It makes his transformation all the more delicious. Heck, we knew he had it in him all along, didn’t we?

Conversely, our villains possess a propensity for being dishonorable in both outlook and deed.  Consider Pride and Prejudice’s Wickham. He preyed on the innocent.  Steeped himself in drink and debauchery while doing the pretty for the ladies and mamas, alike. And, yet, even as his wickedness came to light I couldn’t help but think – hmmm, here is a reformable rake.  All he needs is someone to ‘save’ him from himself. Clearly, that someone was not Jane Austen’s own TSTL , Lydia Bennett.

I even named the villain of my first manuscript Dwight Wykham.  He stole money and a fiancé from his partner and friend.  And when that wasn’t enough, he took particular delight in throwing a monkey wrench in the burgeoning romance of my hero and heroine.  The villain of my second manuscript is a woman.  Yes, she is the woman scorned and we all know Hell hath no fury like hers.  She is a delight to write and, so far, has absolutely no redeemable qualities.  I kind of think of her as the Therese Bellaire (from Jo Beverly’s Company of Rogues series) of my contemporary world.  She’ll stop at nothing to get our hero in her life and in her bed.

I matched each of these villains with heroes and heroines with codes of honor far stronger than these nemesis’s.  I felt I was duty bound, as an author, to do so.  To consider having the villains win in the end is unthinkable, particularly in our genre.  I’d like to think the heroes and heroines of our day are made of much stronger stuff than the evil that we are bombarded with.  Disheartened as I’ve been of late, there are indeed heroes and heroines all around us from the ordinary to the extraordinary.  Like the dad I spoke to today who was looking after his kids.  I quibbled that he was a Mr. Mom. He deferred and said that he loved doing what he was doing.  There are also the obvious heroes in our teachers, leaders, police officers and firefighters.  It is the content of their characters that gives me the raw material from which to build my characters.  There is no question of their honor.

Who do you model your characters after?  Is it a conscious effort to put the heroes in your life on the page?  Is this question of honor strictly for the pages of our books?

By Santa O'Byrne (Galley Ho)

There’s a monster under my bed.  A huge, hideous, deformed creature who should have been put out of its misery long ago but I can’t bear to do it. 

It started out as such a beautiful slip of a thing.  All gangly legs and arms in a dress too short and shoes a trifle too small.  Ah, but I love the darling.  But it’s of no use to me now.  As I said, a mere shadow of what it used to be.  Where once it resembled a fresh, new face, it now looks more like Joan Rivers and Priscilla Presley after too many plastic surgeries.

It started out as a good idea to trim some of the fat off it and chisel away at some of the more awkward pieces.  However, with each revision, I found my story slipping away.  It was no longer the story about two people who decide to be open to loving one another despite his pride and her prejudices.  See, I even had a high concept tie in.   But I told more than I showed.  Apparently, I weaved when I should have bobbed.  So, I went for more feedback and, well, got what I asked for and applied each point.

BIG MISTAKE.  I’ve been stuck here ever since.  Every new direction calls for revisions in another area.  Today, it in no way resembles my original story.  A short time ago, I came to realize that it was time to move on.  There was nothing more I could do for the poor soul but to relegate it to the dust bunnies and shadows under the bed.  It’ll be safe there.  No one will ever see it.  And I mean no one.

So while it lives in the shadows I’ve chosen to write this new one in the light.  I’m not going to worry about naming all the dynamics that should appear in each scene of every chapter. I’m going to write the book as it was meant to be told.   I’m going to write my story about two people who couldn’t be more at odds in their opinions, attitudes and outlooks. Yet, they can’t seem to fight this attraction between them.  It’s got him all tied up in knots. ;)

So, what about you?  Do you have a monster lurking under your bed?  What caused you to let it go and move on? What lessons have you learned from that experience?

Occassional Guest Pirate and one of the coolest ladies I know, Santa O'Byrne returns to the ship to bring us a little group participation.

There’s a house I pass on the way to the bank.  It’s a square red brick house set back from the road a bit.  It’s façade as non-sequential as its shape.  Mirror image windows set on either side of a plain black door while above it a porch door opens onto nothingness.

Every day, like clockwork, a woman walks the perimeter of the yard to the left side of the house.  Dressed in grey sweats that inexplicably blend into the background, she sets her pace along imaginary lines, her face hidden beneath the bill of a baseball cap pulled low over her eyes.

Then she disappears as quickly as she appears.  Is it because the weather turns warmer, negating the need for such heavy armor?  No sooner has my writer’s mind set about continuing the story she’s started in my head, the building begins.  Truckloads of wood planks follow the delivery of tall metal posts set ten feet apart along the same perimeter she walked.  Do the tread marks from her sneakers create a plum line for the builder?

More questions spring to mind.  Deeper mysteries yet to unfold.

The planks went up next, taller than any man, rivaling the height of the house next to it.  Curtains in the windows lifted on the left side seeming to chance a sidelong glance at what was being done right in its own backyard.

Does your writer’s mind work this way?  Do you see the world around you unfold like a story waiting to be told?  Why don’t you tell me how this story unfolds for you and I’ll tell you how it continues to unfold for me.