I shared with my Revenge shipmates a few weeks ago that I was leaving my current day job after seven years for a new position I'm really excited about.

Now, it wasn't that I didn't enjoy my current job. I did. It also wasn't that I didn't like my co-workers, because they are the main reason I stayed so long. I mean every job has it bad points (like overworking you all the time!), but for the most part I was mostly happy with it.

So why did I decide to take a new job and leave what felt familiar. Why rock the boat and have to reinvent myself and prove my worth again for a new group of co-workers?

Because something just didn't feel right anymore. From not feeling challenged in my projects, to a sense that I had started to just flow through everyday without pushing myself to be more, kind of scared me. I don't want to live that life.

And I don't want my writing to be like that either.

So, I'm starting the new book over. Fresh. Bright and shiny new.

Not because it wasn't flowing or because it wasn't good, but because it just felt off. Something isn't right with the tone and characters yet. I'm just not feeling as if the story is electrifying me as much as the ideas in my head do.

As I start this new phase in my career, I've also decided to make a clean start on this new book. I love the characters and plot and want to make sure what I'm putting on the page makes me proud.

At this point I'm insanely excited about both new starts, but nervous too. I put a lot of pressure on myself to exceed expectations and I don't want to set the bar too high, but I always want to be pushing forward.

I'm not doing any more research on the story, but I'm going to spend more time getting to know my characters. My heroine needs to speak to me a little more so I can capture her correctly. My hero needs to step it up too since he's been shy about letting me know his secrets. Ah, the possibilities!

So, here's to new beginnings!

Have you ever started a story over from scratch because you felt you just hadn't captured the tone and characters just right? Were you excited about it, or overwhelmed? Any suggestions on how to make a great first impression at a new job? Lastly, what are you starting fresh and new lately?

The past few days I've seen multiple posts with quotes from Margaret Thatcher but the one above is the one that really stuck out and spoke to me. Combine that with Terri's post from Monday, and it's what's been on my mind, ta-da blog post!

Terri's reminder to us that a writer's process can change very much when you cross that oh-so-hard hurdle of becoming a gasp! published author had me commenting that I don't currently think to much about how much my output will need to increase. That's mostly because for the most part I've been losing the battle to write lately.

It's a battle I've lost and won many times over the past few years. My victories have been small ones though. Limited. Fleeting. Eventually I surrender and let the craziness of my life fly its flag victorious.

There are months I take back my lunches and write a good 500-1000 words a day. And there are months, nay, multiple months in a row where I'm lucky if 100 words get added.

But I continue to battle on. I will never give up until the winning days outweigh the losing ones. That will be when the shift for me from writing without thinking about the future to writing with the future in mind will happen.

Because The Iron Lady is right. Not every war is won or lost in a single battle. In fact, everyday that a writer puts words on paper is a day you won the battle. To find the time, inspiration and sanity(!) to get your story down is a victory. Each and everyday.

Does your battle tally show more wins than losses? What helps you win that battle from day-to-day and week-to-week? Do you approach getting words on the page as a battle or have you won the war and its now become conquered territory? Are you like me and have multiple battles going on in your life at the same time?

Music Influence- a band called Hurt. If you don't know them, find them, love them, stalk them to a concert near you. Seriously. You won't regret it.

“Cold on the inside. In phases my lights die. Staring through ardent eyes. I love you, but I lied. Cold on the inside. In faces a smile dies. Staring through ardent eyes. I loathe you, but I lied.”

Cold Inside- Hurt (Vol. 1, 2006)

The first time I knew I wanted to write, it wasn't a story. I didn't have a story to tell. Or at least I didn't think I had a story to tell. I felt all this pressure inside me welling up. My brain was a jumbled mess of nothing and everything. My fingers itched to do something but I wasn't sure what. I didn't know it was the urge to create. To write.

I was a child who spent my energy running outside from dawn to dusk. If I was inside, I poured over books. I lived in my imaginary world. I lived inside others imagination, showing me things in the world I didn't know existed, or possible.

I ran through fields of overgrown grass and weeds, Black-Eyed Susans, dandelions and clover sweetened the breeze even on the hottest days. I lived in my makeshift world where I had a stable of unicorns and a winged unicorn was my personal best friend. The clouds always held shape and was easy for my eyes to make out the obvious faces staring down at me. The first summer after my eyes no longer had innocence and couldn't find the simple wonders in the world, my fingers learned a new world. My words painted what my eyes no longer saw. Short strokes on a blank notebook page. The only sound was the pencil scratching furiously. The sentences held no format. Punctuation was nowhere to be found, but I found something I had been missing. All that had pent up inside me in those years of pretending and wandering manifested into... something. I wasn't sure what it was. What I'd carved out of my heart sat roughly on this page. My handwriting wasn't neat. Nor my sentences witty and clever. But for a brief second I felt that little piece of happiness I'd been missing and hadn't known it was truly gone.

I saw a way on that page to truly live again.

But this had to remain my secret. No one could know of this. Read this. Discover this. This- manifestation of what was in me. No one could know but me. I just wanted my life back. The life of running carefree through the fields and staring up at the clouds. Of wishing on stars and believing the magic in the stories I read. If I could only exercise out what stopped me from believing, I could have it all back.

So I wrote. And I kept writing. I had pages filled with thoughts and fears burned into my mind. The loss and the pain and uncertainty poured out until I knew there was nothing left. My tears smeared the pen and wrinkled the paper and yet I woke up the next day filled with the same feelings. I'd never have it back- the innocence I lost. I'd never be the little girl running through the field and chasing butterflies, believing they were faeries guiding me into the faerie kingdom. I'd never be the little girl wishing on stars and believing the one that fell was the unicorn I'd dreamed for. The writing showed me I wasn't a little girl. I was never going to be that girl again. If I wanted to dream, I had to find a way to bring it to life.

And that is how I learned to write.

Do you remember the first thing you ever wrote that meant something to you? What does writing (or reading) mean to you?

Just a side note: The song above I reference was written by the lead singer of Hurt, J. Loren Wince, when he was just 13 years old. Reading lyrics, to me, is a lot like reading poetry. My first words were manifested into free form poetry. I think this is why I've always loved music and lyrics.

One of the major principles of Weight Watchers—or really any eating plan in which you want to lose weight—is planning. If you don’t plan to succeed, then you’re planning to fail.

This is never more evident than when you don’t pre-determine what you’ll be eating through out the week, or at least hatch some possible plans to pick from if you don’t like being tied to one thing. The benefit to planning healthy foods to keep you from overeating also keeps you (usually) from overspending. You’re not going out to eat every night, you’re not planning last minute meals that require you to buy everything each night—no, instead you’re taking stock of what you do have, what you are capable of making and what you enjoy, and creating from that.

If you’re not a leftovers person, then you have to figure out what one portion meals are easy to throw together without involving a lot of prep work. I like having pre-cooked chicken or beef and making various things: Italian, Mexican, or Chinese themed that can be adjusted by using different sauces or vegetables. But I also enjoy making a meal—like meatloaf—and figuring it out how to use it to make something new a couple meals later, like Bolognese sauce.

I am pretty good at this because 1.) I’m not adverse against recycling what I already have; 2.) I’ve cooked enough that I can be flexible and creative about it without relying too heavily on following the recipe exactly; and 3.) I plan. Food matters to me. I love food. Some people eat to live, but I’m definitely a live to eat type of gal.

Now think of writing.

If you want to succeed in finishing your novel, you need to plan—or you’ll be planning to fail. Have a goal—you want to write a story where the hero triumphs and love conquers all, great—and decide how you’re going to make that happen.

You don’t want to grow bored while you’re writing, so take some basic ingredients that can carry over into whatever you’re doing. The rakish hero, the intelligent but plain heroine—and think of the ways you usually like to devour these characters when they’re presented by other writers. How can you make this recipe your own? What tricks do you know that can make the story better, funnier, more emotional?

Take a classic story line—like Beauty and the Beast—and figure out how you can make a different twist or story out of it. Is the woman the beast? Does she lose her beauty? How do you take a successful “recipe” for storytelling and create something new? How do you make a fusion of your two favorite writing styles? You play with it. You take a chance. The worst that will happen is that you have to throw it out, but most of the time, it’s still edible…and sometimes you come up with something truly delicious and innovative.

Be daring. I know you’re good at this because I’m sure you’ve all already taken to recycling things from your own writing that you couldn’t use in another story, something too good to bury forever. You’re great writers and you keep improving because you’re always writing or thinking of writing. The only thing left is to plan…plan for your success. Really think about your story and the story questions. What do you wish to achieve with this story? And like nearly all achievements, the best ones are the ones for yourself and not for others. Writing for yourself first is almost always more successful than just picking something you think will sway the marketing trends. The marketing trends are always fickle.

It’d be like if the marketing world’s new trend was BEETS, but I hate beets, I don’t even like to eat them—so how could I possibly cook with them? And usually these sorts of trends only last a year or two, which is the average length it takes a person to get published anyway. Wouldn’t it make more sense to find a food you’re passionate about and write about that? You love chocolate…and beta scholars—then write about them. Maybe some sweet, sensitive hero discovers how to make the world’s best chocolate bar. Wouldn’t we all love to read about that guy? Haven’t we all wanted to thank him?

Write what you love. Make a plan. Realize nothing worth doing is going to happen overnight.

In the meantime, if you want to learn more about planning your novel, I highly, HIGHLY recommend the book: Outlining Your Novel by K.M. Weiland. (Incidentally the Kindle version is only $2.99! What a deal!) I’m reading it now and writing in my notebook as I go along. It’s definitely one of the top five craft books I’ve ever read. Structured enough to keep you progressing, creative enough not to make you feel stymied. This is a woman in favor of a plan.

So it’s Monday…and I’m sure everyone’s not done being hungover yet. But once you get a few cups of coffee in you, let’s talk about planning, cooking, and success. What types of things do you plan in your writing/novels or other things in life? Do you have a favorite recipe that you’ve had to lighten up over the years so you can keep enjoying it? What do you think it takes to be successful?

Awhile back I purchased a book by Victoria Lynn Schmidt titled Book in a Month and perused the first few chapters numerous times but kept putting it down knowing it wasn’t the right time for me to put it into practice.

I’ve participated in NaNo before and failed. Twice. What made me then think to buy this book and even considering using it? All I can say in my defense is that I’m inspired by how this book takes you step by step through the process. Every day has an assignment to complete. Complete the assignment each day for 30 days and at the end you should have one hell of a fast draft. I’m really excited to actually try using this process.

But I don’t want to focus on the book or 30 day fast draft process today. I want to focus on something the author mentions needing to examine before you can really start out on your writing journey. According to her there are five secrets to successfully completing her plan and writing a book in a month. Today I want to focus on number four – Examining Your Self Esteem.

*I can envision Chance and Bo’Sun nodding their heads as they read that. Yes, pirates I have an issue with self-esteem of the writing kind and I’m here today to admit it publicly.*

The line that really stood out to me from Mrs. Schmidt’s section on this was, “Self-esteem means you can say to yourself “I matter, and so do my goals.”

She then lists some statements that if you agree with more than a few you need to work on your self-esteem. Here are a few I found myself identifying with:

• I constantly blame myself for not writing enough, even if it’s not my fault


• I make excuses for my work before I show it or read it out loud. (“This is a draft; I’m not finished with this scene yet.”)


• I’m reluctant to set and announce my writing goals for feat that I won’t attain them


• I’m filled with big writing dreams and goals, but just can’t get started or follow through

The list goes on, but those are the ones that really had me thinking. She suggests overcoming self-esteem issues by identifying your strengths and not allowing yourself or anyone else to criticize you (especially during a rough or fast draft).

Do you think you might suffer from a little writing self-esteem issue? I suspect I'm not the only one who identified with those statements above. I know how much Chance loves it when we feed our inner critics to the Kraken so feel free to envision throwing those damn issues overboard.

Today instead of listing our issues I want to work on our self-esteem by talking about our strengths and successes as writers. Don’t be shy. I want to hear it all including that poem you wrote in fourth grade or even a blog post you felt great about how well it was received. This is the time and place for signing your own praises! Every single strength and success counts and brings you closer to becoming the writer you want to be.

I’m officially creating a Pirates cheerleading squad today – Chance we need some drinks to celebrate! (And yes, you all must have pom poms and do the cheers – no excuses!)

I’m not a Catholic, but I am looking forward to the fish fries that are going to be available between now and the end of Lent. (I’m a freak for Captain D’s; I won’t deny it.) And as it is getting to be that time of year where we think about the areas of our lives we wish to improve upon, because no one is perfect, I have to confess: I am a terrible student.

I’m taking a class. Simple. 3 weeks; just email; you’re not getting a grade. It’s a course on secrets. Secrets we keep; why we keep secrets; repercussions of those secrets being revealed—the whole shebang. Yes, the class I had everyone vote on a couple weeks ago. I’m in it; and I’m enjoying it.

And now I’ve remembered I’m a terrible student.

Here are the reasons why:

1)    The homework actually makes me think hard about my characters, digging deep beneath some layers and revealing vulnerabilities. This is a problem because I like to think of myself as the sort of general who wouldn’t send his troops out to run over a hill he wasn’t willing to run over himself. And I’m not remotely willing to run over that fucking hill. My layers and vulnerabilities are going to continue to be buried and ignored and left alone—and I swear to God, if you try to hug me, I’ll rip off your arm and club you with it. So I’m trying to do homework and make my characters do things and discuss things I wouldn’t be do or discuss if you paid me. I feel like a hypocritical therapist. And it’s no good pointing out the characters don’t actually exist, because they do.

2)    Not only do I not like digging deep for vulnerabilities, I don’t like sharing them with the rest of the class. I couldn’t avoid it forever; the teacher was nagging. I settled down in my chair and figured out some secret stuff for Adam and the rest; I was most comfortable discussing Lucifer’s vulnerabilities. Finally satisfied with my results, at least to a degree, I realized I needed to post this to the rest of a class. A class of my peers, who I had only met by sending out a one-paragraph “hi-howdy-how-are-you” meet and greet. I don’t know these people. I don’t know their judgments or knee-jerk pet peeves. I might be sitting in a room of fundamentalists for all I knew and I was going to send out my characters’ vulnerabilities to these potential jackals? Not only am I a hypocritical therapist, I’m a horrible therapist, ratting out her clients to a bunch of strangers.

3)    My latent Hermione Granger gene. You know the gene I’m talking about. The one every hyper-excelling perfectionist has beating beneath her breastbone. I don’t want to be good in this class; I want to be the one who earned 103%. And I should be ashamed of myself. Scottish kings have been stabbed for less. And if Ron were here, he probably would.

Anyway, confession aside, our current assignment in the secrets class is identifying the reason why you’re keeping the secret. SHAME, PRIDE, FEAR OF PUNISHMENT or GUILT. And the class—aside from the reasons above—has been good for me. I think I’ve figured out some things about Adam and Eve, of their time before the divorce, that I didn’t know (or realized I knew) before. I realized that most of the secrets I ever have my characters keep are attributed to PRIDE. The pig-headed variety. And I don’t even care. I just laugh as I think about it because I can’t blame them. I would do the same thing if I were in their situation, which clearly isn’t news since I’m writing them and all.

Jenny Crusie wrote a blog a few weeks ago called the Tao of Bob, and one of the revelations that Bob made was that your therapist knows what’s wrong with you the first session you meet. But you end up going for two years because they can’t tell you what’s wrong with you—mainly because you’re going to be too pig-blind stubborn to believe them. You have to figure it out yourself. I know this to be true. My therapist operated this exact way; and I had my suspicions from the beginning she knew my dirty secrets, the dirty secrets I refused to share with myself or her. Even though she already knew them.

But there it is. The core hero and heroine I write in every story I scribble. They might have low self-esteem and neuroses out the wazoo, but by Golly, they have their Pride. And if we’re writing ourselves—not that any of us are blood-sucking warriors or demon-slayers—then clearly my writing therapy is all about not succumbing to the deadliest sin of all. Good thing it’s fiction because I am not nearly as optimistic that I can implement it in my own life nearly as well as my characters can.

Oh, well. At least there’s fish.

So line up for confession: what have you realized your writing reveals most about you? And have you ever taken a writing class that you really enjoyed? Does the thought that your deepest secrets will be revealed through your writing and realized by everyone who reads your work make you break out in a cold sweat? And how do you eat your fish: battered or breaded?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I admit, sometimes I compare the heroes in my favorite romance novels to the man sitting across from me at the dinner table. On a really good day, my significant other is comparable to a reformed rake, other days, not so much. I chose him to be the hero of my life, he loves me for who I am, and he is a wonderful father to our son. Sometimes his character arc could use some work, but overall, it’s a happily ever after.

One of my good friends recently decided to stop reading romance novels. She can’t let the fantasy of her literary heroes stay within the pages. She compares all of their “heroic qualities” to those of her husband, and he just doesn’t measure up in her eyes. She realizes this isn’t fair, but she still wants to throw rocks at him every time she finishes a romance novel. We’ve had lengthy discussions about this issue. I argue the fantasy card and she argues that she wants to read more substantial fiction that portrays the hero as a more average male. I can empathize with her to a certain point. I understand that some romance heroes are a little over the top, but most have the basic characteristics our significant others possess. It’s great to read about a hero who has attractive physical qualities, but I always look for an honest heart. Even the most notorious rake can have a sympathetic heart for those less fortunate, or at least he is good even when he is bad. If every hero was your average Joe, wouldn’t reading become a favorite past time? Readers wouldn’t make a purchase at the bookstore; they would glance at the man holding the remote every time they passed through the living room with a load of laundry.

I enjoy immersing myself in the fantasy lives of fictional heroes. The more far removed the story line is from my life, the more I enjoy the book. I suppose that is why I am such a fan of historical romance. I become fully entranced by ballroom scenes and those stolen moments of passion. It’s a treat to escape into the past by holding a book in my hands. I also know when the book goes back on the shelf that I can use the fantasy to my advantage. It can inspire me to write, it can inspire my interaction with my real life hero, or it can relieve stress at a time when I have zero access to a Big Boy Margarita.

I admire a hero who brings out the best in a heroine. Sure, it’s easy to become fixated on a charming hero, but my admiration comes from the growth he shows as a character throughout the story. I love a flawed, tortured hero who reforms, but doesn’t turn into a complete sap by the end of the story.

I think the secret between creating a good hero and a memorable one, is balance. He has to be charming but credible. A writer shouldn’t lose focus of his end compromise, and should always make his black moment as worthy as his character.

Have you ever compared literary heroes or heroines to your significant other? Do you avoid giving the heroes in your stories certain qualities? Does the passion in romance novels ever kick your libido into overdrive? *g*

 

 

 

Haven’t watched the show but I’ve always had a fondness for Christian Slater. Throwback to my ‘80’s era hair and early ‘90’s love of the surfer boy blonde looks. Long ago I got over the surfer boy blonde hair look (I don’t look good standing next to a blonde, I’m pale.) but I’ve always had that love for the guy who is tall, dark, dangerous and really someone you shouldn’t be standing in a dark corner with- even if he’s supposed to save your life.

 

Or living a double life.

 

I have a love of beating the odds. Double life livers are the risk taker extrodinares of beating the odds. Usually consists of the being the hero and the underdog- the most underrated person in the world. No one believes in them, not even themselves. It takes a very special person to get through to an underdog. A true underdog has weighed out all other options and no matter what the answer is always the same. If you do this, you will lose. There is no losing for an underdog. It’s a win-win situation. The whole purpose of an underdog is to show someone else it can be done against all the odds. You might not win the first time, but damnit if you don’t try and try again until you get it right.

 

Writing is an underdog sport. You know the odds it will take to get finished. To get noticed. To get published. To get famous. And to become a bestseller. It’s damn near impossible. But that doesn’t mean we all give up. No. It means we push ourselves harder. We become more determined and focused and hone our craft until it’s polished and as close to a perfect carat diamond as you’ll ever see.

 

The goal for me, in my writing, is underdog moments that will bring me in deeper into character. My characters thrive from dangerous situations that they have no control over, and just like myself, my characters like control. They live control. They breathe it. Nothing happens just to happen to them. It’s because they’re so hellbent on controlling every aspect of their lives that they can’t see the boulder racing down the hill towards them like a steamroller. In that instant they turn from hero to underdog and that’s what I love the most about writing and the underdog. I have the ability to make the underdog the hero and I’ve always wanted to be the hero, but remain the underdog.  

 

My subconscious is my own worst enemy who keeps me at the underdog status (rightfully, I belong in the underdog status. It's easier to throw off the enemy that way, looking all innocent and sweet). I spend my days working for the underdog, just wanting everyone to have exactly what they want in a world where that doesn’t happen too often. There is always something standing in our way. In general, the world’s population as a whole are underdogs in life. We spend our days working against the odds to rise above it all and take control of our situations. Control is the very aspect of life that an underdog can’t control. So through writing, I take my own worst enemy and I flip it on its ear and give it a new meaning.

 

Today let’s talk about underdog moments in life and through writing. What is your most memorable underdog moment you’ve experienced or witnessed? How about your characters? Or character’s you’ve read.

Just a thought.

 

It’s passing at first. You walk down the hallway, up the stairs without the light thinking about it. You walk into the bedroom, ignoring the thought as you ready for bed. You sit on the edge of the bed, sinking into the softness as the thought mills around in your tired brain.

 

Ignore it. You’ve got better things to play out.

 

You lay your head on the pillow. You close your eyes slowly. The gentle glow from the TV is soothing, and the thought refuses to go away. You thought you could make it go away.

 

I mean, it’s only a thought. A brief moment, a flash through your subconscious.

 

But that thought brought your subconscious back into focus.

 

It brings you back together.

 

It pulls you apart.

 

The first glance into something new always sticks with you the hardest. It’s always the most vivid thought that keeps playing over and over again until you finally do something with it.

 

New stories are like that. Once they have you in their clutches, the new story doesn’t let you go. It builds. Gains momentum. Roars like a freight train coming around the bend. The fun and excitement of exploring new ideas, new directions, and new characters are what keep writer’s going through tough times when it’s not coming so easily anymore. New experiences keep our minds fresh and our writing strong so that those beginnings don’t turn into soggy middles and bad endings with loose ends.

 

But with all beginnings, we stumble and we fall. Beginnings bruise us from the inside out as we push through doubt and fear that our new start isn’t as great as we originally thought. So the trick is to work past the doubts; because in the beginning doubt will be the only thing that keeps you from moving forward. And with something new, doubt is just not acceptable.

 

So forge on, great writer, don’t let that beginning beat you down.

 

What is your favorite part about the beginning, whether it be from a writer or reader’s aspect?

 

Beginnings are always the toughest for me. It’s the gateway to the whole book. What I say in that first line will set my tone for what’s to come. And what better way to say that then the title.

 

When I walk into a store, I beeline to the books. It can be Target. It can be Walmart. It can be Hyvee. But I go straight there. Barnes and Noble is heaven for me. I spend a lot of time perusing the library, up on the second floor running my fingers over the thousands of titles. But the single most thing I look for in a book is a title. And the cover. I’m sorry but I’m that person. Tar and feather me if you must but some of the best books I’ve ever read were because I saw them on a shelf, facing out and picked them up for a two-page middle of the book teaser. My mind works like a projector. When I read the words, it plays out like I’m watching it on the screen. The title helps to give me an idea if it might be something I’m interested in. The cover helps me pick it up. I never read a back-cover blurb without reading two pages right in the middle. That’s just the way I am.

 

Two years ago I was in Phoenix at a Walmart in Peoria right off the 101 Loop. They have the biggest book selection ever. Right in the middle of the store. It stretches as far as the eyes can see. I was in need of another book to read. A two and a half hour flight back to Missouri is rough for someone who doesn’t like to fly and I like to spend my time chewing on my fingernails and reading. I searched the new releases. Nothing caught my eye that I didn’t already own. And I head towards the back section. That’s where I saw it. The cover was beautiful, purpleish with gold tones. The middle was a couple. The guy muscular, tan, his dark hair worn longer and the woman, blonde, petite, her hair was plastered to her. He was leaning into her, her mouth ready to be kissed.

 

Hard Evidence. (Pamela Clare)

 

I smiled to myself. A play on words- my kind of book. I picked it up, flipped right to the middle of the book. I can’t repeat the scene. But one might say… uh, um… it was hot. Super hot. Hotter than the Sahara on the most blistering of days. I stood right there in the store fanning myself with this book. My face went flushed. I might’ve sweated a little. I dunno. I was in Phoenix. It was pretty warm.

 

Let’s just say I snatched that book up faster than a rabbit can destroy a strawberry patch.

 

I’m not the best titlist. It goes hand in hand with my inability to write beginnings. I can’t title something I don’t know exactly. Double Vision, my WIP, wasn’t always DV, but I can tell you it happened not too long after I established I was going to start my quest for the original. The plot is completely different as well. My heroine started out as an investigative journalist a little over two years ago. Now my heroine is a special agent for the FBI, working in the cyber crimes unit.

 

This is my first beginning. My working title at the time (which stayed for all of two days, I think. I had to go look up my emails from two years ago. LOL) was Practice Makes Perfect Murder. Just like a headline. Or at least I thought it was in my head. (I’m telling you I suck at titles. I always have. I just happen to have the best titlist in the world as a best girlfriend.)

 

“I’d always thought that paper and ink smelled a lot like heaven and a little like hell. Let’s just say I was leaning a little more towards the hell part today.

 

It was Friday and the office at Midwestern Daily had been a cluster of activity up until about three hours ago. I had been at my desk for 12 hours today and hadn’t accomplished one damn thing. Not one word was written on my computer screen and I still had a nasty red-penciled marked article sitting on my desk courtesy of Dave Winton, Editor-in-Chief. But at the moment I was too fed up to really give a flying rat’s ass.”

 

 

My beginning now, which is still subject to change since I’ve not finished yet and I always rewrite the beginning after I’ve written “The End” is not much better. But better fitting for the title of Double Vision. I’m still thinking up the perfect first sentence. It has to be something completely smart ass, just like Sadie. I will come up with it after I’ve written the last word. That’s usually how this works for me.

 

“It’s been four weeks! What do you mean clean-up isn’t taken care of yet?” I tapped my pencil on the desk and the eraser’s momentum carried it higher and higher the madder I got. I was speaking to my superior, James Davenport of the Washington D.C. FBI office and I tried to keep my voice down to a whisper but I was fighting a losing battle with my temper. “By now Ivan Petrenkov’s whole operation could be shut down!”

 

 

Double Vision is reflective of my plot. There is a lot that can be said for double vision. It can remind you of being drunk in a bar, weaving through the tables as you make your way outside. You vision so blurry you can’t make out which one is real and which one is the fake. It can be the mirror image of my heroine with her twin. The twin is not the main plot. Only the background. Things get very interesting for Sadie when she returns home to Missouri. Practice Makes Perfect Murder wouldn’t fit for this story anymore. To even write that is just silly for me. Bad, bad title. Shame on me. That’s like having a mullet and air-guitaring to Stairway to Heaven.

 

To me the title is the bread and butter of the cover. It is what will attract a lot of people. It is what will ring in their ears long after they’ve forgotten what the cover looked like. It’s hard to come up with something catchy. And for us writing series’, it’s hard to find something you can use over and over again without it becoming stale. It’s like the perfect accessory. Almost as important as the right shoe for the trouser jeans you love to wear. Without a title, your book would be just another untitled good sitting on the shelf waiting to be picked up, begging to be read.

 

 

I know our writing pirate wenches out there have something to share. Give me your best first title and how it’s changed since you’ve began.  Do you think a short or a long title is better? For our readers, do you base your reading off title, cover, blurb or a little of everything? What’s the best title you’ve read for a book that seemed to fit perfectly?

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?

I watched it all float in front of my eyes. Memories not so distant and years ago, reminding me of where I’d been and where I was yet to go. Stuck with you just like a shadow, following you wherever you may roam. I couldn’t get away. I couldn’t run fast enough. Hide away until they floated by. I couldn’t deny them. No matter how far I tried to shove them down in that deep dark corner of my heart, they're always lurking. Haunting you like your long lost conscience. Whispering. Taunting. Making you out of your mind as you try to lie down to sleep. There was no rest to be found. Closure was something of a dream- an afterthought, something I wanted to obtain but never found a way.

There is no denying it. Memories are your own. You can’t run. You have to face them. Eventually.

There's nothing like reminiscing about days passed. I mean, memories are what keep you going when you're stuck in a rut. They make you laugh. They make you cry. They bring back feelings you wish you could forget and the emotions you wished you still had. There is something about memories that if you didn't have them, you'd be empty inside even when you think you’d be better off.

I’m sure this comes as no surprise to most of you, that I wasn't always a pirate. Being a pirate is just something that happens. I didn't fall off the turnip truck as one. I didn't thumb my way across the world. I didn't swim across the seven seas and come out of the water all Bond girl-ish with perfect hair and in a white swimsuit with no nipples showing. (Because let's face it wenches and pirates, you wear white in the water and it turns see-through. And yes I know this to be a fact.) It's all the experiences along the way that turn you into a pirate. A pirate of your own life.

I use memories in my writing. Sometimes it’s just a glimmer of things that have happened, conversations gone haywire, situations gone bad. Fun times. Crazy times. Use rough outlines of my favorite girlfriends for secondary characters. For me, it makes it fun to write. Besides, who hasn't thought about the time someone burned you and you couldn't think of something to say until two days after? It's all about rewriting it to get your revenge. It's about reliving a dream you always wanted to share. A life you always wanted but could never have. Taking the chances through a character and forgoing the consequences. Seeing how much they can take before they break. Or you. Depends on the memory.

Memory writing can be tough. It can also be like therapy. We’ve talked about that on the ship before so I’m not going into it again. A good example of writing from memories can be writing high school scenes with your characters. Everyone has a high school memory they’d like to tweak. Rewrite. Fix for the better. But for me, it's like writing sex. Sex is hard to write. Hands down. I can write torture. I can write blood dripping from the edge of a bathtub. I can write evil bad guys- murder in their eyes, cruel smiles twisted on their lips, without a problem. But writing a sex scene is sheer agony. I spend most of my time while writing a sex scene running through my head (this goes here, that goes there, insert here, do this, touch that) it’s completely nerve wracking. I suppose for me, it’s like that first time together. It’s supposed to be this beautiful moment, and really it ends up being this massive clus-- *ahem* mess where you bump heads right as your about to have that sweet moment. It ruins it.

I have no problem with people reading what I write. No. I couldn’t care less if someone reads a sex scene I wrote where it’s reverse cowgirl and she’s waving the cowboy hat in the air like she’s in the rodeo. It's the intimacy of the scene between me and my reader. It's like being a voyeur in my own world. Mostly because you write what you know. So when I write sex, it feels like I'm spilling the dirty details of my bedroom romps. I’m not… really. To me, writing certain things reminds me of memories whether they are or not. And sex happens to be one of those memory things that no matter how hard you try to stray from experience, you end up writing exactly how it goes in your mind. Except you make it a little more… perfect.

So I can’t be the only one. Spill it pirates and wenches. Have you ever had a memory that you put into book form? For readers, have you ever read a book that mirrored something that happened in your life or something like it? Care to share?

Life is rarely simple. It seems to be easier for some but for most of us, it's downright complicated. I don't know about the rest of you, but complications mess with my ability to focus. In the last several years, I've pretty much run on survival instincts alone. This means, whatever is most important at that moment, I do and think about the rest later. After years of this I'm afraid I'm stuck in survival mode. In other words, if something does not seem all that important, it gets forgotten or pushed aside.

This is where the writing comes into play. I often say my entire life is *have to*, stealing a line from the movie Parenthood. And it's true. I did go back to college because I wanted to, but in the large scheme of things, I have to get this degree if I want to give my daughter and myself any real quality of life. I work because I have to; mine is the only income we have. I drive to Knoxville sixteen times a year because the courts tell me I have to. I'm sure you see the pattern here.

But I write because I *want to*. Very unique situation that. Something I haven't done in a long time and I'm afraid forgotten how to do. You see, the writing keeps getting ignored or pushed aside for other things. Other things that seem more important but perhaps aren't. What if I've lost the ability to do something simply for the joy of doing it?