Word Auto-Summarize is Awsome

I'm writing my Courtly Scandals synopsis for Golden Heart. I'll get them my contest application tomorrow, then have until the end of the month to edit and revise like crazy before I have to send off the hard copies of the manuscript.

This means a couple things.
1. I finished Courtly Scandals. I did not announce it with fireworks because I don't feel done. There was no satisfaction in completing the last chapter, partly, I think, because I'm going to be rewriting that last chapter.
2. I have two weeks to fine tune a manuscript. I have no delusions of that happening. In fact, my husband told me to look on the Golden Heart as a growth experience instead of hoping to win anything. Worst case scenario, I'll get a score card that will give me a very loose idea about reader response.

Anyway, I'm taking a break from editing to write my synopsis. I got frustrated with that and decided to let Microsoft Word do it for me. Do you think they'll like it?

>Tools >AutoSummarize >500 Words

Mary suppressed a smile. Anne? Mary was shocked. “Mary, leave it be.” Mary smiled sweetly. “Lady Oxford.”

Anne. Mary smiled softly. “Oh Mary! Mary was aghast. Mary was surprised. Mary stopped. Was Mistress Parry sad for Mary? Mary nodded. Mary could scarcely breathe. Mary hissed. Mary interrupted with a laugh. Mary was shivering. Mary was surprised. Mary repeated her words. Mary felt cocooned in warmth. Mary leaned back against Charles chest. Mary smiled and kissed Charles softly. Mary had been numb. Mary’s jaw dropped. Mary smiled at the thought of Charles. Mary’s chamber felt different. “Mary!” Mary smiled at the gesture. Mary was hurt. Mary laughed. Mary laughed through her shivering. “Mary.”

Charles.

Mary laughed. Mary nodded her understanding. Mary had a child? Mary stilled. Charles stood, raising Mary with him. Mary blinked once. Charles smiled. Mary left the room. If Mary could…

Mary sighed. “Mary, there you are!” Mary was pleased when Anne smiled. Mary laughed at the thought. Mary smiled at the memory.

Mary was in awe.
Mary was stunned. Mary took another sip. Mary almost sighed. Mary made a disapproving face.

Of course Mary knew. Mary almost laughed. “No?” Mary was amazed. Mary understood the sentiment. Mary felt terrible for her. “Sir Charles!”

Charles nodded. Mary had no response. Queen Elizabeth turned to Mary. Charles laughed.

Mary laughed. Mary sat as directed. Sir Charles laughed at Mary’s happy chatter. “Nay, Mary. Charles nodded. Charles turned at Mary’s yell. Mary was miserable.

Mary groaned again. “Drink up, Mary.” Sir Charles. Mary snorted in disdain. Mary sighed. Mary nodded. Charles noted Mary’s stoicism with pride. Charles smiled. Mary stood silent. “Anne…”

Mary sighed at Oxford’s tactics. Turning to Mary, Anne’s eyes narrowed.

Mary stepped closer, the aggressor. Mary stood firm. “Mistress Mary.” Oxford. Mary pulled away. Mary pulled away. “Charles, please…”

Mary wanted to scream. Mary felt hot, ravenous. Mary could hardly breathe. Blanche handed Mary a farthingale. Mary smiled to herself. “Sir Charles.” Mary calmly nodded. “Mary! Mary – open your eyes.” Mary could hear Charles’ voice. “Mary, hang on!” Mary felt like laughing. Thomas, Mary called him. “Mistress Parry, why has Mary never married? Charles helped secure the blankets over Mary. “Charles…” “Mary.”

“Yes?” Anne.

Mary almost smiled at Anne’s pout. Mary’s relief was sincere. Mary pretended to sleep. With Mary.

Mary felt fine. “Sir Charles.” Mary went too far.” “Mary assaulted me.”

Mistress Parry.

Charles?

Mary was stunned. Charles. Mary was neither. “Charles.” Charles chuckled. Again, Mary nodded. “Mary, are you well?”

Mary recoiled as if slapped. Mary stopped short. Mary had said no. “Mistress Mary?”

“Charles.” “Mary?” “Mary?” Mary? Any lady but Mary. Mary looked startled. Mary nodded. Charles smiled. Charles straightened. Mary twisted it again. Mary sighed. Mary nodded. Mary was silent. Mary whispered.

“Mary is no whore. Mary had never seen Charles like this. Mary felt sorry for her. Charles

Charles groaned. Mary couldn’t help smiling. Was Mary crying?

“Mary, this is ridiculous. “Yes, indeed,” Mary agreed. “Mary, you outdid yourself. Mary shrugged.

Should I Be Embarrassed?

I remember reading a romance novel while on the treadmill at the gym. I got to a steamy scene, then became acutely aware that I was reading it in public. Of course, the people around me didn't know I was at a steamy scene, but they could see the romance novel quality of my book. I was 18ish at the time.

A few years ago I was alone at a restaurant between work meetings. I brought my book, The Lady's Tutor (one of the two erotica I have read). The title and cover were innocuous, so I was not worried about what passerby's might think. I was putting the book back in my purse as I left the restaurant when I noticed that it had "AN EROTIC NOVEL" written across the back cover in bold. Nice. I was a little embarrassed.

During the first example, I was very young and insecure in my right to be a sexual human. There were still a lot of questions and labeling and vulnerabilities. I understand my embarrassment at being perceived to be reading something 'smutty.' Of course, the covers were a little bit ridiculous then, so the perception of smut is more understandable. The covers now are much more elegant (Fabio = then, Eloisa James = now).

BTW, what is Fabio doing to her back? I hope he brought a towel.

As for the second example, well, it is embarrassing that it was embarrassing. I am an adult and I can read what I want to read. As

long as the cover image is not pornographic, it should not offend anyone in a public setting. I should be able to own my reading choices.

I bring this up because I recently read about a writer that was embarrassed to be known as an author of sensual romance. To each, their own, but I just don't get it. I am proud of my writing and I write romance. Unless you are a Shaker, passion is part of romantic love. That, and the passion is just a smidgen of the story. That's right, I said story. Romance novels have stories. Actual plots. Just like any other commercial fiction.

Then again, maybe the concern is that it is commercial fiction and not high literature. Hey, if you're writing something that is marketable and readers respond, CONGRATULATIONS! You are awesome and I envy you. Writing commercial fiction is nothing to sneeze at. Many of the authors I read are educated professionals who were successful in their careers before choosing to write romance. They were drawn into the field for a variety of reasons. There are professors of Shakespearean literature, bio-chemists, TV journalists, former models, and a lot of teachers.


So the question is, why would someone write something they were ashamed of? I'm not talking about using a pen name -- authors choose to do that for a variety of reasons. I'm talking about total embarrassment about the genre they love to create. Does society really judge people's reading and writing choices so harshly? Is there really such a stigma to the romance genre. 20 years ago I would have said yes... but now?

Addendum: In reading blogs this weekend, I came across this blog from Teach me Tonight. It's a great look at the stereotype of both the romance writer and romance reader along with addressing the stigma of romance.

This is why I don't tell people I am a writer

Grammar Is Not The Boss of Me!

I have had critiques where the suggested changes were limited to what spell and grammar check had to say. I have had critiques where entire sections have been reworded so much so that the characters and the plot were no longer my own. But by far, the most useless critiques have been from people who more or less graded my manuscript. They did not concern themselves with story, characters, flow, pacing, continuity, etc... they looked at each sentence individually and made comments and recommendations in regards to structure. They spent hours and hours, but never actually read my book; they just read a series of sentences. They probably held back from giving me a C- and asking me to redo for a better grade. Their commentary, when all was said and done, was limited to grammar.


In which I discuss my thoughts on grammar rules:
Grammar is only important as it pertains to furthering the story and connecting to the reader (it does have to make sense).

Writers are not English 9 students learning sentence structure. We know it already, sometimes intrinsically. We know it well enough to know how to use that writing structure, or, as is more often the case, to break the rules in order to play upon emotion, theme, set the pace, make the reader anxious, etc... We could not do that if every sentence we wrote had a clear subject, verb, and modifier and/or every paragraphs was 5-7 sentences and had a clear topic sentence. We write in fragments and run ons. We create words and break away mid sentence.

Why?

We're not writing an English paper, we are writing characters. Characters need to be real. They think. They feel. They are not always logical. The reader gets to know them through the way we write them. Sometimes the character's thought processes are random. And sometimes they start sentences with 'and' or end in a preposition. I like to refer to these things as stylistic rather than grammatically incorrect. These things make the author's voice clear and unique. The first first chapter (I wrote several) of Courtly Pleasures (previously known as Courtly Love) was like a term paper. It was grammatically beautiful. Each paragraph was organized around a central theme. It was eleven pages of back story, so it was very much like a research report on Frances Pierrepont and Elizabethan culture. Once I got involved in the action of the story and the dialogue, my writing adapted to tell a story.

I grade student's papers to help them better understand the English language. I write so my reader better understands my story. Totally different. I did not write a paper. I am not a creative writing student. I am a writer and I wrote a book.

Ending this diatribe, I give myself permission to gerund away(ha, I used it as a verb! Take that Strunk and White!). Grammar is not the boss of me. It takes more of a middle management type of position. Grammar is like the supervisor who feels like he has contributed when he made a list of rules about how to use the copier and then goes and makes idle threats when he notices someone did not dispose of the Styrofoam padding that came in the replacement toner cartridge box in the manner designated by the list of rules, so then he laminates the rules so everyone will know he means business and he feels good about the power over copier etiquette until someone else does something else wrong which results in the copier making copies with a thick black line across the middle of every page and then the employees who care about that sort of thing wish they had followed the rules at least some of the time. Like I should have in regards to grammar rules about run-on sentences.

Is grammar your friend? Do you even think about it as you write? Or do you just write?

This Is Not Your Thing, Dawg

The audition process for American Idol is much more drawn out than we see. By the time the singers get to the point they that they sing for the panel of judges, they have been whittled down to a select few. It's no wonder that some of the worse performers are laboring under the delusion that they can sing well. They've gotten so much further than many of the other competitors, they must be pretty good.

But they're not. They are terrible. They are so terrible that they are down right funny. It's sad.

The other day I had a moment where I wondered if I was like them. No, not in singing, but in writing. Writing is part of my identity. I write because I love to write. I read what I have written and am proud of myself. My friends and family read my stuff and tell me it's good. Of course it is, I am a good writer. I have written a great book and have more in store. Thus armed with confidence, I step forward into the world of querying.

Rejection after rejection, I persevere strong in the knowledge that I am a good writer and someday the right person will read my ms and believe in me too. In the meantime, I continue to write because I love to write and am a good writer.

Then comes the thought....

What if I suck?

What if my confidence is based on my own poor taste? Most of my critiquers love me as a person for some reason or another -- will they be brutally honest or only give me their positive notes? I am too close to my own writing to be objective, just like those singers that think their voices are awesome because they can't hear themselves the way others do.

If I did suck, it would explain a lot. Then I could stop blaming my poor query skills or the industry. Then I would just be another bad writer.

This thought hits me from time to time and I pour another glass of wine. Then I get a great idea and start writing again. Then later, when I edit, I find myself chuckling over my own wit or impressed with a turn of phrase. Whether or not I actually suck, apparently my confidence in my own ability is ingrained deeply enough for me to rally back from the occasional funk. Heck, I was down about my ability when I started this post, and then I finished chapter 19 and started chapter 20.

Just for fun, here's a clip from one of the American Idol auditions. It's particularly bad, and the singer seems honestly confused that the judges are laughing. The judges, to their credit, are no purposefully rude.



How do you deal with bouts of insecurity? Or do you ever have them? Do you do anything special to pick up the pieces?

Boo-fest: Not Quite a Ghost Story, But Close

Thank you to Quinn for hosting this boo-fest. The idea is to share a ghost story -- either a personal experience or a retelling of someone else's experience.

The thing is that I am really afraid of ghosts. I'm fascinated by them, want to learn more, drawn to haunted houses, but they scare the bejeebers out of me.

Seriously.

The Sixth Sense bothered me for months. MONTHS. I slept with the light on. All of my weirdo childhood hangups resurfaced -- like not being able to sleep with the closet door open. Being alone at home with any light off in the house. It was bizarre and my husband had no idea how to handle it. That was the first time he found out about my ghost problem. I still have issues when I remember the vomit girl or the mom in the kitchen. *shivers* Let's not even talk about The Shining.

We moved to Ireland right before my tenth birthday. My grandparents had bought a hotel and my dad and uncle were going to manage it. I knew the hotel had been a hunting lodge, but had no idea of what that meant. I knew it was surrounded by woods, but my Southern California based prior knowledge could not comprehend it. Not really. I was not prepared for the creepier aspects.

I remember the flight and meeting my dad at the car. The next thing I knew, I was waking up in an unfamiliar hotel room. Room 18. I was in the middle of a huge, four poster bed. The type of bed so high off the floor that you should have a small set of steps to get in an out. I was tucked under a purple, velor blanket and alone. I had had all sorts of fantasy's about moving from Victorville to Ireland, all very princess-y and magical. This almost counted -- except the room was small, cold, and damp. My blanket, while probably very nice years ago, was patched and had a musty smell. The window looked out to an overgrown hill that was so steep and high that I could have reached out and touched the gorse from my second story hotel room. The overwhelming green outside filtered the light into a dusky gloom making the shadows that much more intense.

I remember climbing out of bed (there were no stairs) and going out the heavy door -- the type of door that took a big, fat key. Directly across the hall the door to room 17 was open. My Mom, brother, and sister were napping in there. We were all waking up from our jet lag. Their sleeping arrangements were less spectacular. Dad had chosen my once impressive bedroom for me on purpose.

Rooms 17, 18, and 19 were at the end of a wing. In order to get to these rooms, you had to walk down a long corridor. To the left were broad, shuttered windows with a view of the slate roof. To the right were inset cabinets that hosted the hotel's linens.


I still have bad dreams about walking down that corridor. The dreams are set both in daylight and at night. There were other portions of the hotel purported to be haunted, this wing disturbed me. I always felt watched. Really, it was a very well lit corridor, but the windows open to the first floor slate roof gave a feeling of being exposed. Vulnerable. Of course it was worse at night -- when you looked out the windows and only saw your reflection in the glass against the expanse of dark.

I still shudder.

My most recent dream I was with my husband, two daughters, and brand new baby (I don't actually have a brand new baby) . We were in the room in the main hall that faced that wing with rooms 17, 18, and 19. I opened the door and could see down all the way to room 19, the light streaming in the windows against the glossy white cupboard doors that flanked the corridor. I felt an inexorable pull as if I was being sucked toward that hall that went on forever. I knew I had to get my family out of the hotel or it would never let us leave. My husband actually believed me and helped get the girls and I went for the baby, but the hotel had already taken her. I woke up crying, my heart pounding.

I know, this is not a ghost story in the traditional sense, but I think it is a close cousin. I cannot wait to share Ireland with my family and revisit memories, but I don't think I'll ever be able to spend time in that part of the hotel.

The Never Ending Scene Blogest

Thank you to Brenda for hosting this blogfest. The premise:

Here's how it works. On your blog site, write a new scene or post a scene from your current project that is no more than 500 words, which has a rocking cliffhanger (pun intended). It can be any genre. Just leave us hanging, craving more, and cursing your name for making us want to turn a page that isn't there. Easy peasy, right? Right.

This is from my rapidly concluding w.i.p., Courtly Scandals. There is frost fair on the Thames and my mc, Mary, has just noticed that the ice is shifting. POV has now switched to Charles, the male lead as he notices the same thing. Charles, a member of Queen Elizabeth's Yeomen of the Guard, is on duty as escort to the Queen and Her party. This scene ends chapter 13.

Looking up he caught the eye of two more guards men and signaled them to him. What was the best exit strategy? If the ice was not secured against the bank and the entire fair shifted the weight on the river, it could crack or worse. He would have the guard split into two groups, escorting citizens and courtiers to either side of the ice. He would ensure the Queen’s safety.

“Sir Charles.” He heard Mary’s voice registered and he turned to find her right in front of him. Oh God. She had to get off the ice. Now.

“The ice,” Mary stammered through chattering teeth, “The ice is not safe.” Looking into her clear green eyes he saw her trust. He had to trust her, too.

“You are right. My men are already beginning escorts to either side of the river. We cannot panic and we cannot rush to one side. Do you understand?”

Mary calmly nodded. “I will join the ladies again and help keep them calm.”

Charles was relieved at the resolve in her eyes. Mary was a strong woman. “Thank you. I must go to the Queen. Now.” His reverence was almost imperceptible as he ran to the Queen’s side.

Again, Charles gave the briefest of reverences and removed his hat as he approached the Queen. Time was of the essence. “Your Grace, we must leave the ice now.”

Queen Elizabeth took in the situation immediately and moved toward the water steps at Banard Castle as Sir Charles directed. “You will see to it that my subjects are seen to safety as well.”

“It is being done as we speak.” Sir Charles could not help but admire the Queen’s ability to remain calm and smiling in the face of potential disaster. She held a tight hand on Dudley’s arm, but never betrayed any sense of urgency or fear.
Sir Charles had the Queen and Her immediate court safe on the watersteps when he heard the ominous groaning sound of the ice straining to hold, followed by a resounding crack as the glossy surface of the Thames splintered into jagged sections, jostled by the current. The court was safe and, he could see, his men across the way had the merchants and other patrons safe as well. Out across the icy expanse of the river he noted the merchant’s pavilions teetering on their unsteady ground. Many people would be loosing their livelihood this day, but thank the Lord that none would loose their lives. If it hadn’t been such a sad sight, it almost would have been comical to see the bright colors of the canvas tents bobbing slowly downstream. In fact, there was the leather merchant’s tent…

Charles’ observations stopped dead. There, next to the leather merchant’s tent, was Mary, bright in her red gown against the starkness of the ice, clutching a small child.

Duh-duh- DUHHHH!

Obviously the scene prior to this cut is much longer. I don't know if it has the cliffhanger aspect as much without any background about Mary, but it will do in a pinch. :)