A Journey Through My Mess

I woke up this morning inspired to write. I knew my direction but I also felt like I needed to find the notes I took at a session at the 2018 Romance Writers of America convention in Denver. I could not remember the name of the speaker, but it was about writing for your id. It was a great session and gave me permission not to try so hard to break out of the aspects of romance I enjoyed but worried were cliche. I shouldn't be different for the sake of being different. If it feels right to me, it will feel right to my readers.

The problem I have is that I have loads of spiral note books and I use them for all sorts of things. Which one I write in depends on which one I grab when I pack my bag. I do dress sketches for Irish dancing. I take notes on staff meetings. I write outlines and scenes for whatever is in my head that day, no matter what actual project I'm supposed to be writing. It's a mess. Most of the notebooks are half-full but not in any sort of sequential order. Some of them include ten pages at the back. Usually the very act of writing it down means I'll remember and then type it out later, but I don't do this with notes from events.

As I looked through my notes I found such stand alone, with no context at all, statements as:

• 200+ years of rape.
• Bags of seed save the day.
• "I trust you" is the highest honor you can give someone.
• Boob situation/solution?

I found World of Warcraft fan fiction that I'd forgotten about interspersed with teaching notes I never followed up on. The collection of notebooks went back to 2012 and one of the pages includes my attempt to turn the Batman image into Celtic knot work. I found pieces of a chapter based on the characters from Shakespeare and became inspired to work on the that project (something shelved four years ago so I could finish the manuscripts that needed it) then found notes for my actual work in progress that inspired this search through my notebooks in the first place. Thank goodness that got me back on track.

I did what I should have done in the first place and shoved all the book back onto my bookshelf to go through another time when I wasn't in the I NEED TO WRITE NOW mood. But first I took a picture.

The crazy thing is that I know there are more somewhere.

I did a search online after all of the fruitless digging through spiral notebooks and found the answers to all my questions -- but this puts a damper on the sense of urgency I had while looking through years of randomness. The speaker was author Dr. Jennifer Barnes. This post from Eight Ladies Writing summed it up well and gave me the basic list I was looking for. The blog post author, Jilly Wood, wrote that, "Stories or scenes depicting sex, touch, beauty, wealth, power, competition and danger push our pleasure buttons." Wonderful. Question answered. My journey through years of random notes/writing only served to let me know I needed to be more organized.

Sneak Peak of a Work in Progress

I lived in Glanmire, Co. Cork, Ireland from 1985 to the summer of 1988. My grandparents owned the Vienna Woods Hotel and my family operated it. We lived in a bungalow at the top of the hill, above the hotel and surrounded by woods. We kept the wood open and maintained the paths. Some of the growth was ancient and some ornamental from the time the hotel was a private home. It was an amazing place to grow up.

I take terrible selfies.
I concentrate too much on the mechanics.

My husband, two daughters, and I visited Ireland this past summer. My eldest daughter, then thirteen, was the same age I was when we left. I tried to share my experiences but the hotel and grounds had changed so much that I felt very little connection and the lack was heartbreaking. I had built this homecoming experience up so much that nothing could have matched the expectation. The saddest part was that the wood was completely inaccessible and even the main opening at the top of the hill was blocked by dumping. One owner at some point had used the wood as their own private waste
disposal for debris from expanding the hotel (it is now about 3 times the size of the original structure). For the record, the hotel was in great condition, the staff welcoming (surprisingly so considering I was probably really weird), and the restaurant experience great. We stayed in a vacation bungalow.

I need to go back and spend time not being a tourist and just let myself experience Ireland slowly, day to day. I know I will and soon, but in the meantime I hold on to memories of belonging that I never had again after moving back to the states.

One of my manuscripts in progress is set on the grounds of the Vienna Woods (although morphed for my creative use because a writer I am all powerful). The premise is that a woman returns to the Ireland seeking the connection she'd had to the land, an elemental power within the earth, something that pulsed through the forest itself. Due to disrespect and greed the forest is in peril and with it the spirit that feeds nature itself. This story is a paranormal romantic suspense with only the seeds of my own life experiences at its core. This is The Gift meets Quiet Man meets Avatar and is quirky and creepy and endearing all at once. I look forward to actually finishing it to my satisfaction (I have finished it  twice now :(, but both went in the wrong direction).

Click below to read a selection from the manuscript when Gillian first steps into the wood after thirty years away.

Extended Imaginary Epilogue

Courtly Scandals is set over the twelve days of Christmas. This means Mary and Charles have twelve days to find their happily ever after. While the fates (me) put them in the position to find each other and have a common goal binding them, it's hard to pave the way for them to have a viable future. Sex is easy (although it's something I have difficulty writing, especially with my kids not respecting the fact that I REALLY am working right now), it's the possibilities of what will come next that is really tricky.

I like to see the potential for success in their relationship. Marriage is tricky and the infatuation based love that comes from our innate instinct to mate and reproduce, is not a long lasting condition. This means the couple has to be able to be friends and have similar values when it comes to fidelity, honor, and the willingness to work on staying in love. This is why I have trouble suspending disbelief for the tropes of the maiden and the rake, especially if there is a broad age difference.

Personally, I write beta males that can be alpha when needed. Don't get me wrong, they're confident, strong, attractive, and smart but they are not pushy. While the man who takes what is his can be sexy in an escapist fantasy, I want a man who listens and respects the woman he loves. That sort of man would never push a woman to the point where, even though she was saying no, her body was saying yes. He would never steamroll over her dreams. It's not just about consent, it's about trust and friendship. I have a hard time visualizing alpha males being true partners as parents or supporting their wife while she deals with depression or what-have-you. The alpha is so set as himself that it would be hard to grow and change with his partner.

While I do write epilogues that give the flavor of what comes next, it would be fun to do something ten or twenty years down the road. Julia Quinn re-released some of her books with extended epilogues and I bought them even though I owned the originals (and loved them). I love seeing what happens next. Romance is so full of potential and hope--it helps promote faith in humanity to see that potential realized. Love can work if you work it and, I think, my characters can stand the test of time. For all that romance is fantasy, it's a good model for life and can help guide good choices for big decisions, even if it's not easy. There's a quote on Julia Quinn's page that says:

“In some ways, portraying a 

healthy relationship in literature

 is the most revolutionary 

thing you can do.” 

—Julia Quinn

When you read romance do you think about what comes next?

Happy Holidays

Greetings and salutations.

For me it's Christmas time, but for you it can be anything you want as long as you enjoy it.

Winter break came a little early this year for my school district which means I have a full week to prepare for Christmas. Usually it's a mad rush over a couple of days and then it's over and the tree is down and where did time go ohmygoshit'sFebruary. Not this year. I'm going to marinate myself in all things Christmas and love it.

On that, I actually have a little time and that means WRITING WILL BE ACCOMPLISHED. Facebook, sewing, and naps will not get in the way. In fact, I am writing this blog post to start the writing juices flowing and tap into my muse (which apparently seems to be meat based on all my metaphors thus far - not a bad muse, really).

So on that note, have a wonderful holiday season. I'll update you with some good news shortly.

And this image came up when I searched "Christmas meat." 

Could be a lot worse.

I'm All Over the Place

It's true. My brain is a plate of spaghetti and I'm at least a touch ADD (attention deficit disorder) so is it any surprise my blog is so inconsistent?

I started this blog when I first joined in with the online writing communities and started growing my craft. Since then my craft has changed. I have changed. But, I still have a handful of books I want to promote and I continue to write forward in various genres.

It's been quite a journey toward finding my identity as a writer. Each time I think I know, something changes and, being a fan of organic growth, I go with it. As a result, the last ten blog posts have been about redefining myself again and again. And again.

And then I cam full circle back to writing Elizabethan historical romance. When I first started this blog, it was called "Doing it Elizabethan Style" thanks to my husband and then changed to "Hold on to Your Bloomers." It's gone through a few evolutions to the current title, "Spocktastic," which is more indicative of me rather than my writing.

The point of this blog post is to own it. It's who I am. I get distracted by shiny things and squirrels. I have moments of genius followed by moments of sleeping. Such is the nature of me and, therefore, my writing.

That said, I like to think my writing is good and entertaining. Right now I'm, as I said in the last post and it's still true, working on bringing Courtly Pleasures back to life. In the meantime, I have posted my paranormal romantic thriller, Possessing Karma, on Inkitt and it is consistently in the top romance novels with over 700 reads. While there's a big part of me that cringes that I'm just putting it out there for free when I feel like it's totally publishable, another part loves that people are actually reading my work.

And that's all for now.

Introducing Call of Echoes

This work in progress has been on the back burner for a long time. In fact, I feel confident in saying that putting it there is what crippled my writing. It was the first moment of me not writing the story of my heart and, instead, writing what I thought would sell.

Newsflash: nothing sold AND I have not finished a manuscript since I put this one away. This one has haunted me. I thought it was the ghost of my dearly departed first book that held me back, but it was this one. This story is so intensely personal in that the wood I describe is the same wood where I lived as a child. The longing and the full sensory experience is so real. As for the story as a whole? Not even sort of based on real life.

My biggest struggle with this story was whether to build the romance or the paranormal element as the primary story. I like to think they're balanced and, ultimately, it's about a woman who realizes she deserves happiness (as are all my stories. So whether it's a paranormal romantic thriller or a paranormal thriller with romantic elements will remain to be seen.

Thank you to Raquel Byrnes for the title. I've been calling it Sexy Trees (because there are trees in the book and there's sexiness, but not sex with trees - different genre) and finally have something a little more respectable.

Just for fun, here's a sneak peak at the prologue.

Prologue

            Pain of fusion, heat, pressure, and the sudden chill of wind and rain seared my first memory into being. Mother beneath me heaving and stilling only to surge again and again, pressing me higher into the emptiness above, left me solitary. Sense of purpose filled me, my granite roots deep and joined with my brethren. Together we were one with the core. We pulsed with power born of raw elemental violence. Always united but each alone, dark night and misty morning. Surrounded by empty earth, I longed for more, to feel the warmth of the burning star and to taste the dew. With each burst of my energy, the land around me awakened and blossomed, new life twining inexorably my channel to the beating heart of earth. Vibrant and fertile, life and death surrounded me and became woven into my very fiber. I nourished my children, the five reaching higher and broader, sending out shoots of their own until the land around me teemed with my progeny. Awake, aware, and embraced, I felt the world above as never before and I felt joy. 

            Man came late, leaving footprints, proof of their ambition and determination. They needed me, the safe haven of my bower. They called me sacred, god, goddess, Aine, menhir, and my children the Duir, the oak. In return, man paid homage to me with ritual and respect. Together my children and man flourished. I reached out to know them and found one who accepted me—a child. Open and innocent, our beings joined and her people called her the guardian. Our bond was as sacred to them as the life I gave, the grove I bore, the beams of moonlight that joined me to all. I gave the guardian access to the pulse from within my core to protect my children and that guardian gave their breath to upholding our bond. I treasure the guardians, once called Druids, who gave themselves to me. I am the bone, my oaken children are my nerves, my veins. The guardians, for there have been many, give me their pleasure and their pain. Through them I have sight and scent, taste and sound. They sing to me and I hold their memories within my immortality.

            Man seldom seeks me at the glade now. Those that dare, only take and never give back. I feel the tendrils of my influence shrinking and their apathy kills all I love.

           I have been and will continue to be the lifeblood of this land. I will do whatever necessary to protect what is mine. We will flourish no matter the obstacle. I will never allow anyone or anything to interrupt the cycle held deep within the roots and boughs I have born. I know this as I know the winds and rain that wear my skin, the moss that absorbs my warmth. My children with thrive again because the guardian has returned.

            

Hello Summer!

As a teacher, summer is a sacred time dedicated to sleep and emotional healing. Without said healing, it is impossible to have the optimism necessary to approach a new school year full of hope. To be more specific, if you open your classroom doors on that first day of fall and are already thinking of your students as assholes negatively, the year is doomed.

Doomed.

Today I slept until noon and, in order to not feel like a total slob, did put on clean clothes including a bra. Why? Well, I hope to be productive with writing today and actually being dressed helps me NOT play World of Warcraft because I am a serious author. Right? Right.

I also now have slightly more than a month to prepare for Romance Writer's of America's national convention. I am financially blessed that this year is in San Diego, just an hour or so away. This means instead of it being a $2000 or more commitment, it's only (only! Oy vey) $500ish. This does not mean I get to slack. No, sir. I am on my home field and need to kick some pitching-my-books butt this year. I did not attend RWA15 in New York last year for financial and emotional reasons (there's only so many times you can smile and keep a professional-yet-creative face on while you get rejected). I spent the summer piddling around with different writing ideas but not really writing forward. A lot of false starts and revisions. This summer I am going to be a writing machine. I know the stories are in me, I just have to convince myself that I can really write them.

My point? Writing, actually writing something that I get to look back on and say, "I wrote that!" with pride is emotionally healing for me. During the school year I have a lot of small successes, but many of them come with redefining what success means for each student individually. Sometimes it's hard to put my finger on and really see the progress. But when I write, I can see that word count grow. I can't wait to write more, almost like I'm not writing but I'm reading something that leaves me feeling like I can't wait to see what happens next. I get this incredible sense of accomplishment that comes from within (it has to, since I have yet to find that elusive agent who believes in my writing) that is so, so very validating. I've had this feeling from my costuming and when my daughters Irish dance dresses, but it's not the same. With those, I thrive on compliments. With my writing, I am proud of myself whether or not I sell, or even if my critique partner quirks a brow and tells me she doesn't understand my direction.

So there, I've shared a part of my rambling soul in this not very cohesive post (does that make it a horcrux?)

Come, Nerd with Me

Having the last name of Spock does not automatically make me a Trekkie (or Trekker). Spock is Polish, not Vulcan, and I married into the name. I started life as a Kane and the Star Trek influence came courtesy of my physicist father and my own extreme Captain Kirk crush in the third grade. When Star Trek: The Next Generation came out, I reserved judgement and only was won over by Michael Dorn who I missed from Misfits of Science.  I watched Deep Space Nine and Voyager (I still call Captain Janeway Mrs. Columbo), but only made it through a few episodes of Enterprise, and that due to residual Quantum Leap loyalty.

When I started playing World of Warcraft, Micheal Dorn once again gave his seal of approval, telling me to, "go with honor." WoW lead to watching The Guild (increased in credibility by the presence of Wil Wheaton (who will always be Wesley to me (can I have multiple parenthesis within parenthesis?))) and that, in turn, gave the nod of "yes, that's worth my time" to Supernatural (Felicia Day).

Yes, I've been on a disjointed, pop culture journey.

I bring this up because I write historical and supernatural romantic fiction. My entire entertainment history implies I should be writing Science Fiction or Fantasy. My adolescence was built around Xanth, so,why romance? Peirs Anthony described the sexual act as rolling around together and waiting to see an ellipsis appear in the air.

I'm currently listening to Ready Player One by Ernest Cline and am so into it I'm holding myself back by reserving the listening experience to my commute. Ready Player One is set in a dystopian future that takes the escapist nature of entertainment technology to a new level. It's compelling and hilarious and I feel like I'm with my people. Could this genre be where I belong? Why am I writing (unsuccessfully) romance?

Let's go back to my Kirk crush. I never thought boys had cooties. I always was in love with the idea of love. Romance, the fantasy of that happily ever after, is my carrot on a stick. And there it is.

Realization: I need to write nerdy romance. Bam. Mind blown.

Now I just need to finish two works in progress, possibly three, so I can explore this new world.

Back on the Horse

I am the biggest obstacle to my writing. There are those moments when I could believe in muses gifting me with a story. Then there are those moments (many, many moments over the past year) where my writing is forced with the hope that if I write something, the right thing will happen. The result usually involves many mindless Facebook games, deleted pages, or the urge to nap.

When I have experienced writer's block in the past it's always because I wasn't writing the correct thing. Something was critically wrong with my story and I couldn't work forward until it was fixed. This past year has been different. I think I stopped trusting myself and my vision. Rejection took its toll and I think, on a subconscious level, I no longer believed that the right story lay within me. I lost the joy of writing for writing's sake and could only see my failures.

My critique partner would ask me about this every time she saw me. I didn't see what was happening because I was still writing, sort of. Hardly producing, but I would open the file and change it enough to have to save at the end. She saw me flailing and wanted to help, but I didn't see it. She asked if I was done with writing. I said no, but I wondered.

So, here it is. I am not done with writing. What I am done with (until I freak out again, there's a full moon, menstruation, out of ice cream, whatever) is writing with the goal of getting an agent/editor's attention. I'm writing for me. I'm writing what will make me smile, cry, or surprise my husband with unsolicited physical affection. I will write because it makes me feel like I'm fulfilling my potential.

And if an agent/editor ends up liking it, bully for me. If not... well, eventually sometime something I write will be the right thing for the industry and then I'll have a whole backlog of completed manuscripts for my future readers.

In honor of my wake up call, my next post will include the beginning pages from a work in progress than I'm disinterring and going to finish (if it kills me, goshdarnit). So stay tuned.

The video linked below is twenty minutes but worth your time. I have thought back on it many times over the years, especially when I don't feel the creative genius percolating and try to force it. It helps me to realize I can't control everything (serenity prayer anyone?) and the stories that need to be told will be told.

Hell if I Know

I have no idea what I'm doing. It's true. It doesn't matter if we're talking about teaching, parenting, writing, sewing, breathing.. I have no clue. I'm just making things up as I go along and hoping no one notices. Luckily I've become good at faking it, but that doesn't change the fact that I feel like a fraud.

I have these moments of clarity when I think, "Hey, I'm a grown up now," or "Wow, I've been teaching for fifteen years," or, "My kids are still alive!" and think I may be competent. But then I wake up the next day and have to fight my own self doubt again.

In The War of Art author Steven Pressfield calls this niggling doubt of being an impostor "Resistance."

Resistance lurks and preys on insecurities. What makes me think I'm good enough to write a book that people want to read? I'm just me, how can I design and sew a dress that looks like anything other than bits of fabric an overweight mom threw together in her kitchen?

Sometimes Resistance floors me, filling me with doubt and self loathing. Then there are the times that I square my shoulders and flip it of and write because I love writing. I know that dress looks great because I trust my judgement (except when I don't). I am so full of ideas, of color, of energy, how can I not create?

Creative outlets, in writing or teaching or parenting, are where I find fulfillment so how can I let Resistance make me complacent and willing to be mediocre? In order to believe this about myself I have to redefine success to the act of creativity rather than any sort of external validation. Of course, this makes it easier to listen to Resistance when it tells me my books are terrible, but in the end I trust the spark inside me that pushes me to keep truckin'.

So, KERPLOWWWIE! I will continue to spray the world with my creative juices (ewww) because 1. I can. And 2. It makes me whole.

Who cares if I'm just making it up as I go along? Isn't that what creativity is?

Sure, I Can Make an Irish Solo Dress...

You see the price tags on the USED dresses and think to yourself that you have years of sewing experience. You even have experience in costuming. You can embroider, you can bead. Hell, you once made a dress that weighed almost forty pounds, a little baby Irish dress has got to be cake.

Well, it's not. It's so much more than a dress. It has to hang correctly when stationary and when moving. The skirt has to be weighted to stay down, but light enough to pop up with kicks. The bodice can't be form fitting, but should show the dancer's posture and form. The sleeves should always been in the down position and hang correctly that way, but the dancer needs to be able to fix her wig.

For my first dress I was worried about putting in a zipper. One YouTube tutorial later and the zipper was the least of my worries. In the long run, my biggest struggle (construction-wise) was with the sleeves. The detail work took some getting used to as well. I hated the idea of working with glue and opted to stitch on all the beads. This resulted in a dress that, up close, had a home-made quality. I still think it danced well, but I was too stuck in my own vision to consider resale.

This is a good source that answers questions about Irish dresses. I also found this very helpful when it came to patterning and applique. Then there is always just looking at the dresses, figuring out how the professionals pieced them together (this has been the most helpful). To look at some of the big name designers, click on the images included in this post.

I had a similar experience when it came to writing my first book. I'd always been a big reader, but didn't think, "Hey, I could write this," until I started reading romance (my Mom's Fabio collection). I realize now that I didn't have a respect for the genre or the writers at that time. Not until, years later, I struggled with my own story arc did I really pick apart what made a good book and gain appreciation for the nuances of the story building.

My first book was a labor of love, based entirely on my vision of how it should be. No, it didn't/hasn't sold. There's been interest, yes - but ultimately I hear that it's more like historical fiction than historical romance.

Just like with my first solo dress. I received compliments, sincere ones about how pretty the dress was. But was it an Irish solo dress? I'm learning.

My point here is that, from the outside, sometimes things look simpler than they are in reality. This is not new news by any means, but it's a lesson I learn over and over again. Knowing this has made me a kinder person, less critical. I appreciate the work that goes into making something great so much more than I did when I was full of unjustified confidence.

And thus, I am finished with another adequate blog post.

Death by a Thousand Cuts

This is Sam Elliot. It was actually the 'mustache rides" t-shirt that made this win over all the other images that came up under my "crazy mustache biker dude" search.

This is what I must have looked like today at Princess Nails when I had my brow waxed and my insanely huge mustache threaded. I'd noticed a few hairs that were darker than blonde and though I should take care of it before I go downhill fast. I can't just wax my lip thanks to the cold sores I get whenever that space is abused. Hence, threading. Holy Mary, Mother of God. I left with tears streaming down my face, trying to smile as I paid for this torture.

Why subject myself to this? Well, I'm going to a writing conference.

What does my mustache have to do with writing? This is the big question. The real answer? Nothing. However, in an effort to look like a well-groomed, confident, competent, not-crazy person, I put a lot of time into getting into my writerly character. This involves shaving my legs regularly, not just the day I need it, so that my skin looks healthy, nourished, and isn't covered in red bumps. It also involves reacquainting myself with my flat-iron and make-up bag. It means a more regular skin regime, not just using a daily moisturizer with spf30. Why? Because most people put more effort into their appearance than I do on a daily basis and, during a conference, I have to fake it in such a way that it seems natural. It's akin to Renee Zellweger putting on weight and taking on a job at a British publishing company to prepare for Bridget Jones's Diary (only much less cool.) I pretend to be socially acceptable and hope it sticks for the duration of the conference.

The amount of which I simply do not care about how I look would astound most people. This is offset by occasional bouts of caring, but not enough to actually do anything on a regular basis. At conferences I plan to promote myself like a high priced whore (without the sex). It's what I always do. Usually I'm sort of hyped about the process, ready to conquer the world, and the Stanislavskian character development/method acting begins a good month in advance.

Not so this time. I leave tomorrow for Los Angeles and I just gave in to the self-inflicted pressure and took one small step towards my packaging (losing the mustache I didn't even know I had). I made the monetary investment and allowances for time away from my family a while ago, but I haven't committed to my pre-conference prep. Why? I don't seem to care. Yeah-- I know, it's dumb. I mean, I care like crazy about getting published but, lately, when I think about pitching, I just get tired. I don't know if can be that go-getter who is serious about her career (I am very serious, btw), smiling at strangers and trying to network. I think the problem is that there is only so much abuse a person's ego can take. How many times do I get told the industry doesn't want my manuscripts before I start to believe it? I might be there already. I'm pitching my finished work this time, but I've stopped seeing them as viable and count only on my works in progress when I think about the possibility of that first deal. I've lost steam.

This could be a good thing. I mean the high-on-life social butterfly I force myself to be at these things hasn't worked. It's possible I come off as on crack (not the first time I've heard that) and am off-putting. Maybe, the new, relaxed conference version of me will be more appealing. Heck, maybe I should just go for hard-to-get and make myself a challenge. If you can spark MY interest, you might get to represent my three historical romance novels, two supernatural romantic suspense novels, and possibly my contemporary romances (if you're lucky). I'll be aloof and mysterious. Come and get me.

Yeah, I don't have high hopes for that either.  So, as it stands, I will probably doll up (professional with personal touches that speak to artistry) and pretend to be gregarious then sleep hard for a week. We shall see.

If you see me at the California Dreamin' Conference, please say hello. I'm friendly even if I'm not naturally outgoing. Or, maybe I will be on crack and say hello to you first. Who know's? It's a mystery.

I Really Hate Titles

Seriously, I do. I will come up with something clever, but not sexy. The titles I like don't give a clear idea of the story and aren't gripping. It's really a problem.

Next time I pitch, I think the header on my one sheet should say "Insert Title Here" instead of whatever I come up with. After all, editors often change the title anyway, right?

Currently my Irish paranormal is called Touching the Past. The forest is central to the story, so when my critique partner and I discuss is, she calls it Sexy Trees or Psychic Trees. My husband, who really is a proponent for the titillating angle (which is not the entirety of the story and, therefore, shouldn't be the only selling feature) wants me to call it She Gives Him Wood. I like the idea of the title One (inspired by the U2 song) or Eternal Memory or The Heart's Guardian... but no, not sexy.

Allow me to scream. Hey, Screaming Trees... no, that was a grunge band.

Okay, better now.

How do you come up with a title?

The image shown left (and more!) can be found here.

Judging

If you'd ask me last month how to get inspired about getting housework done, I'd have told you writing. Not in-the-zone writing, but the kind where you force yourself to sit and stare and reread and type filler to get from point A to point B. You know, the writing that you'll end up deleting next time.

I was wrong. Writing is a great way to get excited about housework, but if you really want to get inspired to scrub things that no one sees anyway, judge a contest. That will get your cleaning motors running. I'm a machine, I tell you!

The good news is that I am plugging through the contest. It's a little awkward because these authors are all just like me - they have a finished book (or four) and are trying to get their work out there. Some submissions have great bones but poor finishing. Some are excellently written but I can't seem to get into the characters. Some draw me in right away... Really, it's just like reading anything -- absolutely subjective to my interests and whims (not counting the poor editing that pulls me right out of a story that might be great).  Being a judge doesn't make me more objective, it just makes me not give up.

Judging has also made me wonder about previous (and current) contests in which I've participated. Are they all judged by schlubbs like me? I mean, what makes my wisdom all that and a can of Coke? Nothing. I'm just another writer plugging away toward my word count and crossing various appendages with the hope that someday, SOMEDAY, it will all pan out. Sigh.

On that note, I can only hope that the people who judge my submissions to various contests give me the attention and honesty I'm giving the submissions in my packet. I may not be the reader that will give them the push they need to get into the world of publication, but I will be thoughtful and apply opinions based on my experiences in this crazy world of writing.

And I will do some more dishes. Who knew the grout around my sink was actually cream colored? I always thought it was brown.

Dropping the Ball

Happy 2014 to everyone. I actually stayed up until midnight to ring in the New Year. I did not feel the least excited until my daughters, ages 9 and 7 1/2, tackled me with hugs, eyes sparkling, full of joy and hope for the new year. Seriously, nothing is as inspiring as a child who believes in magic and their own potential.

Miley Cyrus performed Wrecking Ball at Times Square. I'm a little embarrassed to admit that I like the song. My kids, former fans of Hannah Montana, watched the performance with uncertainty, glancing at me for my reaction from time to time. My eldest pointed out that Miley wasn't as naked this time.  Poor, poor Miley. Talk about someone who has lost innocence and doesn't believe in magic. If she had faith in her own potential or trusted in her talent would she be exploiting herself like this? Very sad. I actually watched video a week or so ago just to see what the hype was about. I'm all for artistic expression and was ready to give the benefit of the doubt. I tried to see some of the directors vision, looking for the rubble and nudity as a metaphor for vulnerability, being stripped bare; but then the licking of the construction material grossed me out and the whole thing left me feeling like both Miley and the wrecking ball needed to be sanitized. I hope she comes out on the other side as a wiser adult, able to get past the embarrassment of her behavior without too much therapy.

Click here to view Wrecking Ball on YouTube.
Click here to view The Onion's slideshow. Much better.

I think I lost some of my faith in my talent and the value of perseverance over the last part of 2013. RWA 13 in Atlanta was not a screaming success for me. I can partly blame that on the fact I had just torn a tendon in my bicep (what I thought was a pinched nerve at the time) -- I wasn't nearly as social this year. My pitches went well, but yielded nothing. I came home, got some pain meds for my shoulder, and proceeded to do very little in the way of writing for the rest of the year. I dropped the ball.

This year is starting out with me blogging again (yay!) and writing forward. The good news is that pain med induced dreams can be very realistic and very weird. I have a couple new premises for future projects. I also spent a lot of time considering my current characters and really know them much better. I expect today's writing to be productive.

Wish me luck! Good luck to you and your endeavors. Hope to post again soon.

*Note: I was looking for some Wrecking Ball parodies to link here but they all grossed me out. Sorry.

A Story is Born

I was at my orthopedic surgeon's office for a post-op follow up. Out came the sutures, we both appreciated the minimal appearance the scar. I mentioned my kids were in the car watching Brave with their Daddy. My doctor hadn't heard of the movie and I recommended it, saying it's the first Disney princess movie where falling in love with a charming prince isn't the solution to the problem. I then commented that it was funny that it appealed for that reason since I wrote romance.

My doctor cocked a lightly penciled brow and told me to write one for her: early forties, never married, two big dogs. Bamm! My writerly instincts popped into gear, but instead of thinking about firemen and log cabins, I immediately jumped to the internal stakes for the main character and started brainstorming obstacles. As a writer, this makes absolute sense. As a woman pseudo-joking about lack of romance, her stoned (pain-killers, prescribed and used appropriately) patient spewing possible character flaws (especially since I don't really know her at all, even though she's technically been more intimate with me than anyone else) probably didn't sit well.

I may actually write a little flash fiction for her just for fun and give her the choice between the fireman, the scientist, the childhood sweetheart, etc... Maybe make it a choose your own adventure. Or maybe I'll introduce her to my brother, although I don't know if that would be helping at all. Who knows? She deserves some sort of apology for me spit-balling about the heroine having to overcome control freak tendencies.

I hope I don't need another surgery. :)

This is for you, Doc!

Viewing Your Own Work Objectively

It isn't possible. There. Done. Shortest blog post ever.

Nah, I was just kidding. My point has been made but I'm still going to babble. And, before I begin, let me explain that I am on pain killers for shoulder surgery. Be warned. I am not bi-polar but I play one on TV.

Okay, on point: Objectivity = impossible.  While I'm writing and excited, the book is the best book ever written. I am a GOD!  And then revisions of the first draft begin and I should not be allowed to live, let alone write. When everything is done and I have a clean, finished manuscript I, yet again, become awesome. At this point I usually don't look at it again and move on to the next project.

From time to time I've unearthed one of my previous works for a submission or competition or such. These times are iffy. I could be far enough removed from it to find the cadence of my writing unfamiliar and be pleasantly surprised by a book that (by that point, it's probably been rejected a few times) is obviously terrible. Or maybe it was so close to my heart that it hurts to even read it with the knowledge that it will remain under my bed. I've been through the gamut of reactions with my courtly books.

Possessing Karma was going to be my break out novel. It was edgy, different, super sexy, a little scary... it merged my love of history with my total fear of ghosts and came out awesome. Or at least I thought it was awesome until yesterday when I decided to do a quick once over for Golden Heart.

Things I remember including as part of my voice and my character's deep pov are not there. I must have cut them in favor of brevity or something. Philippe's a nice guy, maybe too nice. Karma's OCD because I say she is, but I don't show it. Damn. I don't know what I did in the final edit, but my work feels soulless and choppy. No wonder it didn't get the response I expected.

I think I may have to set aside Touched in favor of breathing life back into Karma. Either that or I'll read it again tomorrow and be awed by my brilliance.

Trending Now #youaretoolate

You’re already too late to join in the success of the current big thing. Sorry, but that’s how it is. Once you become aware of the current trends, they’re already on the way out. The only hope you have is to somehow be the next trend.  The problem here is that if you aren’t a current trend, you are currently unsellable. If time traveling cowboys aren’t already flying off the shelves, then your time traveling cowboy book is not representable. However, if you have written something based on the hot topic de jour, agents may want it, but by the time it’s on the shelves, readers are bored.

Maybe this is a jaded opinion (no maybe about it, it is). It makes a lot of sense that an agent wouldn’t want something that they don’t foresee making them a profit. I don’t resent this at all – it’s business.  Besides, if the agent is making money, that means the authors are making money and that seems win-win to me. The problem is that the next big thing has to come from somewhere. A book has to actually become published that is outside the proscribed mold in order for readers to make it a phenomenon. This implies that, from time to time, agents and editors take the risk of working outside the box (eitherr that or the author self-publishes successfully and all the agents who told them there was no spot on the bookshelf for them start kicking themselves).

I have to believe that if I write a good book, even if it isn’t trending now, it is worthy of attention. There are readers out there. I have to believe this to keep writing.

I admit that after three unsellable Tudor era romances I jumped ship and wrote a paranormal. Paranormals are hot, right? I had a good story to tell and didn’t feel like I was betraying my historical roots. I looked at trends and saw vampire/shifter market saturation and avoided it. Still, my paranormal wasn’t the right type of paranormal. Looking at trends now, it seems paranormal series is the hot thing. The same protagonists from book to book (Angie Fox, Karen M. Moning, Darynda Jones.) Yes, I very much enjoy these authors, but I also like my stories to end (As much as I love Sylvia Day, I may not read the fourth Crossfire book simply out of a fit of pique that the third book teased me into thinking the story was coming to a conclusion.)  Of course, even if I could bring myself to do this, I’d be too late to jump on this trend.

Do I try to predict the next trend and write to that? Or do I write the stories that demand to be written and trust that, eventually, they will end up accidentally hitting the nail on the head. Who knows? Ultimately, I will just write on, trust my instincts, and let everything unfold how it will.

Do you let trends determine your writing?

Hope Springs Eternal

Nothing sparks hope like the positive response from an agent or publisher. Every time I’ve had a full manuscript requested has been golden. My writing is never better than when I feel like it’s going somewhere. I’ve had publisher responses telling me, a day after I sent the initial first three chapters, that they couldn’t put it down and to please send the full. During that time I’m a writing machine.

While waiting on my post-Romance Writers of America conference agent responses, hope held steady, petering only a little as we approach the 90 day deadline. No response is better than a bad response, right?

But what happens when hope is gone? A rejection is a sure way to kill my creative flow. Maybe my anti-depressants aren’t strong enough or I don’t get enough sunshine, but it really slays me. In fact, the generic ‘no thank you’ response is less painful than the agent that says I’m a good writer, they enjoyed my manuscript, but they can’t represent me at this time. What does that mean? What am I not doing right? Full of self doubt, it becomes impossible to write forward. I stop trusting my instincts after a really positive interaction with an industry profession doesn’t pan out. I don’t trust my writing when, obviously, readers don’t connect with it. Without knowing what I need to know different, my ability to produce it completely stymied.

It’s a shame that my sense of hope is pegged upon the response of others. I wish I could give myself my own gold star, but I must not have enough confidence. It’s upsetting and makes me wonder if I’m that singer auditioning for American Idol who sounds like a cow in labor, but thinks I’m all that.

The good news is that this too shall pass. I’ll get over myself because the story percolating in my head demands to be told. I’ll rediscover the joy of writing for the sake of writing and then the cycle will repeat. Who knows? Maybe some day I’ll have the right story and get it to the right reader.

I guess that means hope is not gone, not really. As for now, maybe today I’ll write in spite of the rejections. Or maybe I’ll give myself permission to be discouraged. Who knows? Tomorrow will be better.

Gillian, What's Your Sign?

As I flesh out my characters, one of the tools I use to keep myself from making them archetypal is an astrological chart. I give my characters a birthday and accept the random character traits astrology lists. I already know the basics. For example, as a Leo, Gillian is confident and a little pushy. She is comfortable performing and enjoys the recognition for her talents. This is currently causing her some grief in her academic studies because her British professor has discounted her as a dumb American. Her chart added some traits that balance out her drive to succeed. Her moon in Jupiter gives her "great optimism and an ability to bounce back easily from negative experiences" -- which is important given that her husband died of Leukemia and she's uprooted her life to follow her dreams.  Her Mercury being in Virgo helps in her research with the University of Cork College in that she has "a fine mind and a great appetite for detail. [She] appreciate minute differences and distinctions and take a very surgical approach to your operations." True to her Leonine traits, her Mercury squares Mars making her a forceful and dynamic communicator who sometimes can be too aggressive. Luckily her sun is in the 12th house, making her serious and ready to sacrifice herself for the needs of other.

Whether or not you think astrology is bunk, the character traits have been really useful. I need to run my male lead's chart. I know that Sergeant Liam Hurley of Glangashaboy garda is an Aries and very compatible with a Leo, but would find more information helpful in developing him further.

For more detail on Gillian's astrological chart or, more importantly, to look at the various facets of a cahrt, continue reading. For those of you who don't care (and hey, I get that), don't continue reading.

Happy writing.

Note: I used the astrological chart generator linked above. For those of you that might really be into this as a religion/science and have thoughts on the accuracy of the chart generator, I don't really care. Since Gillian is not a real person, it's only important as a tool for me.