Michele Bardsley Writes

Guest Post: Denise Townsend Talks about Selkie Lust + Contest!

2011-12-23T11:20:00.000-06:00

Hello folks! My name is Denise Townsend, and I'm a writer of paranormal erotic romance. My first book with Samhain, Ocean's Touch, is coming out next week, December 27th. So I thought I'd stop by the lovely Michele's blog to say hello...and offer up a digital ARC (or two) for a contest!Since it's the holiday season, I was thinking about what someone might buy the selkie in their life. Some thoughts?There was fish paste...

Or a Dyson Animal, in case seals shed...

Then there's the old seal favorite of juggling balls, to balance on the tip of their nose....

I think a selkie would be happy to receive any of these as a present, don't you?

And speaking of receiving, I'm giving away two digital ARCs of Ocean's Touch! To enter to win one, just comment below about what you think would make a good holiday gift for any of your favorite paranormal creatures.

We'll pick two winners randomly, on Monday the 26th.

To find out more about the book, and to read a sexy sample chapter, go here.

A Letter to My Son

2011-11-28T10:55:00.000-06:00

I know it’s hard for you. Okay. Actually, I don’t. I have noidea what it’s like to not feel in control of your emotions, your thoughts.Whatever emotional roller coaster I’ve been on eventually stops … and I’m ableto get out and stand on the platform. And I can quiet my thoughts withmeditation or music or breathing.

You can’t. You’re on a roller coaster that just keeps going,and you wind through loops, and endure the spins, and hold on for the turns,and you do it endlessly. Is it any wonder you grab at control wherever you can?Or that you feel irritable, and sad, and anxious?

It’s beyond frustrating for me. I’m your mother. And I KNOWthat what you’re going through is not a matter of willpower. Or lack ofdiscipline. Or choosing not to be in control. And I still … I still … get angry with you. Impatient.And weary. So, so weary.

I cannot imagine how it must be for you, to live in thatitchy skin, to be attacked by your own mind, your own emotions, to be in aworld that you did not create and cannot make sense of … I cannot know, babe.

My heart breaks for you.

I am not soft on you. You do not get a pass. ADHD. Bi-polar.Puberty. It’s a tough load to bear, but you have to endure. You have to marchforward and keep going no matter how dark it gets, how thorny the brambles ofyour thoughts, how muddy the path becomes.

You can do it.

You are smart. And funny. And handsome. And strong. Andheartfelt. And kind. Oh, yes. You are, my darling, so very, very kind. It’s awonderful quality, especially for someone who doesn’t receive much kindnessfrom others.

I know it’s difficult for you to make friends. I know youstruggle in school. I know you want to be normal. Let me just say this: Thereis no normal. There is mundane. There is boring. There is everyday ho-hum.

You are not normal. You are extraordinary. The world you seeis different, the way you think is different, the way you are is different. Itgives you opportunities and challenges and adventures that no one else can have… because they are not you.

Right now, we are doing all that we can to ensure yourfunctionality in this world. And even as you learn to cope, to focus, to betteryour manners, to connect more effectively with others, please know that…

…you are wonderful.

…you are worthwhile.

…you are loved.

2011-11-14T05:35:00.001-06:00

So writers are a little crazy. A little. We have to be, I think, in order to process all the wonderment (or horror) that exists in our imaginations. The good news: If we're writing about hatchet-wielding psychos, then we are not wielding said hatchets ourselves. See? Crazy enough to WRITE about it, not crazy enough to DO it.

There are always exceptions, of course.

You know that whole thing where someone somewhere said "If you think you're crazy then you're not because you're entertaining the possibility that you are." (Did you get that?) I dunno. I've been in conversations where I've said, "But that's not really crazy, right?" and had people look at me and say, "Hell, yes, that's psycho. What's WRONG with you?" It should be noted these people were not writers. If you have that same conversation with a writer, the writer responds, "Crazy? Not nearly enough. Now, if you were to take acid and pour it over the body... ."

I love writers. But being a writer is kinda like being a zombie. If you're a zombie and you're shuffling along with other zombies, you're not going to get your face eaten off. If you're a pretender and we figure it out, we're taking you down and ripping off appendages.

Um, let me clarify that analogy.

We understand our own kind. We do not always understand other people. Nor do other people always understand us. That's why most writers are friends with other writers, or with readers (who may not write, but the love what writing creates, so they get to be zombies, too). Sometimes, we have to have to non-creatives in our lives (marrying someone who uses logic and budgets and lies to us about what time we're supposed to be somewhere so we arrive when we're supposed to, for instance) to balance us.

The crazy gives us the gift, you see, but it also asks a blood price. If you're a writer and you are immersed in your world, especially because you're on a deadline, you drown in it. You emerge from a writing marathon with your hair sticking up because you grabbed it so many times while trying to get your brain to kick in, and you're wearing a stained T-shirt and sweatpants you don't remember putting on, and your breath smells like death, and your fingers are cramped from typing and clutching a coffee mug 72 times every hour.

Then you walk around your house muttering, holding that empty, crusted coffee mug, not knowing what day it is or when you last showered, and your family scatters in all directions because you have "that look." When in this state, not even your dogs will greet you. They're cowering under a bed somewhere because at some point during your creative-making, you shouted, "MUTHAFUCKINGSTUPIDASSBOOKIWILLKILLYOUFUCKING ... oh, wait, I know what to do." And they yipped out of your office like their asses were on fire because "mommy done lost her mind."

Crazy can bleed out into reality. If you take a look at the lives of some writers, you'll note multiple marriages, alcoholism and drug addictions, sex scandals, and other self-destructive dramas. There is this roller coaster of emotion that we find ourselves on ... riding it for all it's worth because we need the experiences, the darkness, the wildness, the highs and lows. We need them to write. Our imaginations can come up with a lot of scenarios. And research can brings us the information we need to write about occupations and settings. But at the end of the day, we have to make those emotional connections that breathe life into our characters. We have to have that scarred, screwed-up place inside of us so we can create flawed, but sympathetic protagonists, and almost sympathetic, highly motivated villains, and emotionally wrought scenes that wound and cut and bleed.

And because we have that crazy inside of us, we need other people who will hold our hands and slap us out of the stupor and stick a ladder inside the hole we crawled inside. We need other writers and readers and even those non-creatives to keep us from picking up the hatchet for real. Just sayin'.

So, what are your thoughts about the writer-crazy?

To Whom It May Concern

2011-09-20T07:07:00.000-05:00

Readers often email me, usually with kind comments about my books. Ever so often, I get heart-warming stories of how a Broken Heart novel got them through some tough times. (Those are the best!) Sometimes, readers email me to tell me about errors or to express their disappointment in certain plot elements. I also get emails from fans/aspiring writers who want advice or critique or the number to my literary agent.

When I was kid, we didn't have email. (You know, when dinosaurs existed and Scott Baio was still popular.) Fan letters were written with pen and paper. People couldn't whip out their smart phones and send off an email, text, or Facebook update. They had to find a pen, get some paper, sit down at a table, and think about what they wanted to say. Then they had to write it. If they were lucky, they had some White-Out to cover up mistakes. Or they could go with the ol' scratching out method. Writing an actual letter gave people time to consider their words. It took a lot more work to create an fan letter (and yes, I've gotten of few of those, too, and they are awesome), and people really had to consider what they were writing. Then they had to take time to fold up that paper, put it in an envelope, and stick a stamp on it. And then ... then they had to take it to the mailbox. All of this effort and time gave them an opportunity to decide if they REALLY wanted to send that letter. And no one expected an actual response--and if they got one, I imagine they were thrilled. With email, no one has to think about what they're writing, or what they're sending. They type out whatever's in their heart or mind and hit send. It takes seconds for that fan (or not fan) letter to reach an author.

These days, it's a lot easier to get in touch, or at least have the illusion of getting in touch, with authors. Most of us utilize social media networks, so a Twitter, Facebook, or LinkedIn post will get our attention and sometimes, our response. We are accessible. And because we are accessible, people feel as though they know us. In fact, it's possible to believe that because Author A responded to Fan B's tweet ... they are, of course, practically friends. And readers can get upset if authors don't respond to their emails or their tweets. There is somehow this odd sense of entitlement, of expectation from some readers that honestly baffles me. I write books. But I also have a day job and take care of a family. I'm pretty much a regular human being. (Regular. Not normal.) I'm published, that's true (and wonderful), and readers who love my novels make it so that I can keep writing. All the same, I wonder if authors are supposed to walk around feeling like they owe readers. I mean, our fans aren't the mob. You're not gonna break our legs if we don't do want you say ... er, right?

What do you think? Is reader interaction (social media, email, or otherwise) with published authors a perk ... or an obligation? And when you write an email or a fan letter to an author, do you expect a response?

Boiling in the Pressure Cooker of Life

2011-07-24T20:40:00.004-05:00

Have you ever been in a room with other people ... say, during a family dinner or a cocktail party or an employee breakroom ... and just sorta start screaming inside your own head? Like: AAAAAAAAAAAH. AAAH. AAAH. AAAH. AAAAAAAAAAAH.

Maybe it's just me.

I don't handle stress well. I wish I could accumulate some damn Zen and then I could a write a blog that was actually helpful. You know, Ten Ways to De-Stress Your Life---and Keep Your Brain from Exploding! Yeah. ZEN. And I don't mean the Zen accidentally reached because you're too tired to do anything but brush your teeth and fall into bed. Or the kind of Zen you get because the stress is so much you have an internal meltdown and a "FUCK THIS" moment and you get out the ice cream and go watch television for sixteen hours. Because procrastinating is so helpful with stress, right?

I'm forty-one-years-old, people. I understand that life looks at my plans, at my checklists, at my I-will-get-my-shit-together hopes ... and laughs maniacally while shredding everything with a machete. I'm good in crisis mode. (I hate crisis mode, but I am good at it.) I suck at time management. Because that's mature and organization-y. I know I am inefficient and whiny, but I am also hopeful and keep trying. And you know what? My time management suckitude is not for the reasons you may think.

It is the release of the Perfectionist Monster. I must do everything that I thought about, promised, agreed to, procrastinated, meant to do, and will do NOW. In the next twenty-four hours. Because it should be DONE. It is all a priority---a terrible, beastly priority, and I must conquer the tasks I have set forth. Then I think about EVERYTHING I need to do and the panic rises, and my internal thermometer goes into the red, and I have to go stick my head in the freezer until my temperature goes down.

And to get the ice cream.

I have read books. Tried systems. Meditated. Created self-mottos. Muttered mantras. Done yoga. Swallowed Kava pills. And when none of that shit works, I sit in a room staring blankly across a table at someone and just scream in my head.

Also, I'm stupid-cranky. And I get sick of listening to my internal screams and my ever expanding, ongoing list-making (this, and this, and then this, and THEN that ... oh, and that, too). I don't even like being around me. Gah. And I know, believe me, I know, that my stress is nowhere near the stress of people dealing with bombed government buildings, and nuclear fall-outs, and being yelled at by Simon Cowell. Still. We have to live our lives where we're at, and our sorrows are no less because they are smaller.

I know that happiness is something created from moments. Sure, happiness comes from accomplishments, too. And happiness can be a choice. You can smile or you can rail. You can laugh or you can cry. You can crawl into bed like someone beat you all day with metal pipes or you can fall asleep being grateful that you had another beautiful day with the people you love.

I want to be THAT girl. The one with the secret smile who inherently knows that all is well. She knows that what must be done will be done in grace and in beauty and in peace. That people are more important than to-do lists, and it's okay to stop, breathe in, get perspective, and begin again.

Okay. I've added "Achieve Zen" to my to-do list. Where's the ice cream?

Phở-gettaboutit!

2011-05-11T11:11:00.001-05:00

I am in love with phở (pronounced "fuh"), which is Vietnamese noodle soup. And not just any phở, either. It's the chicken curry (known as "S7" at the restaurant AVB* and I frequent) that holds my affections.

I call it "A Bowl of Happy."

Honestly, I would've never tried Vietnamese anything if AVB hadn't suggested it. The first time we went to a phở restaurant, I got some beef soup something or another that didn't taste too bad, but it kinda smelled like feet. Then AVB offered a taste of his phở, and I knew the next time we had Vietnamese noodle soup, I was getting THAT one.

And I did. I never get anything else, either. Because S7 makes me happy. (So do the shrimp spring rolls that come before it.) There is a ritual involved with the soup, too. You get a plate of basil, cilantro, bean sprouts, lime, and jalapenos. I usually throw in the basil and cilantro and call it good. And most people typically eat it with a spoon and chopsticks, which is a cool way to eat anything.

Phở is the soup equivalent of chocolate. Okay. Process WHO is saying that then think about WHAT I just said. If given the choice between S7 and a Godiva chocolate bar, I would choose ... S7. Do you understand now the awesomeness of this soup? I would put aside gourmet chocolate so that I could have a whole bowl of chicken curry phở.

It's true.

It's like Prozac for the soul. Zen for the mind. Yummy for the tummy. I don't know if it's the old school comfort of eating warm, delicious soup that invokes so much happy, but ... hell, I don't know have to figure out the why.

I think we spend too much time trying to figure out the whys of life. Why did that happen? Why didn't I make Choice B instead of stupid Choice A? Why doesn't Insert Illogical Situation Here make any freaking sense? Maybe it helps to figure out reasons for certain circumstances. Coming out with an answer to "why" can bring comfort, encourage faith, assuage loneliness. But sometimes, there is no why. Or the answer to "why" cannot be known---maybe for now, maybe forever. It's a scary idea that life is a series of random events, that we have no control over what will unfold today (or any day), that we decide if our lives have meaning. We decide. However we bring meaning into our lives, whatever we determine is important, however we choose to stay the course ... it's all on us. We are responsible for our happiness.

If we find someone, something, somewhere that brings us pleasure, we don't have to figure out why. If whatever it is invokes a sense of joy, of peace, of beautiful quiet ... then that's the point where we let go of reasoning it out. If you find your happiness, however large or small it may be, then it's okay to let everything else go and just live within that bubble you've created.

We all know that moments don't last. It's not wise to cling to the past, no matter how happy the circumstances. Every day offers opportunities to find new joys. And yes, every day you can return to the source of known happiness ... such as an order of S7 with a side of shrimp spring rolls.

*Awesome Viking Boyfriend

Write Anyway: How do I get a literary agent?

2011-05-09T14:04:00.003-05:00

Relevant Links:
Association of Authors' Representatives
Miss Snark Archives
Preditors & Editors Agent Listing

Never give up, never surrender!

2011-05-04T08:10:00.000-05:00

Yeah, I'm quoting from "Galaxy Quest," which is an awesome movie. (And we know that I lurve movies, right?)

Even though "Galaxy Quest" is a hilarious parody, and it's tag line is meant to be comedic, I take its meaning seriously. Okay. When I think of it, it's usually like this:

So I get a smile outta of my attempts to motivate myself. :-) Anyway. When I decide to do something, and sometimes it takes me a while to make a decision, I'm in. All the way. Never give up. Never surrender. I have a stubborn streak and a whole of not-gonna-defeat-me-pissed-off within me. When I fail, I get mad. And I let that anger fuel me forward.

You gotta do what you gotta do. (Bonus points if you know where I plucked that gem from.)

There's no "I'll just take a break because I'm tired." Fuck tired. Frustrated? Unhappy with progress? Other people's opinions poking me like sharp sticks? Whatever. I get up. I do it again. And again. It's not that I don't entertain thoughts of just quitting. Quitting often sounds great. Because if I quit, then I won't be tired or disappointed or having to work so damned hard. But here's what I know: It's impossible to give up just a little. Giving up is like sliding down a glass hill. There's nothing to grab onto, no way to stop the descent. I know I'll end up in the mucky-muck I was trying to escape.

I took a new path. It's not an easy one to navigate, and it's rife with temptation, and it's bumpy, and there are potholes, and sometimes it rains, but the up side is that I'm walking it with someone else, and that makes it easier. Better. If I had to do it on my own, I would. It's a lot less scary to take the journey with someone else, and it offers the kind of inspiration I need when I end up in the mud or getting jabbed by wayward branches. I have a goal, and I will reach it.

If it's worth having, it's worth fighting for. How much more wonderful is something obtained if I've sweat and bled for it? I applied this same philosophy to my writing career, to the life I built after leaving a shitty marriage, to helping my son as he's faced numerous difficulties, and to this newest adventure: losing weight and getting healthy.

Like I said, when I'm in, I'm in.

Never give up. Never surrender.

Guilty

2011-04-27T13:55:00.000-05:00

I was once Catholic. When I was very young, my mother married her second husband, whose family was of Italian descent and I-almost-touched-Pope-John's-robes Catholic. As an aside, my step-grandmother made the Best. Pasta. Ever. By hand, people. Let us take a moment of silence to honor that food which is Awesome and Delicious.

Amen.

Maybe my battles with guilt started prior to my introduction to Catholicism. Then again, I was four when my mother married Husband Two, so ... you know, maybe not. Oh, don't worry! This is not a blog about religion.

It's about guilt.

It's possible the attending of mass every week and my eventual enrollment into a private Catholic school and my feeling guilty about everything all the time are intertwined because I was young, and now I'm not, and it's difficult to pinpoint the origin of this particular and weighty baggage. This was a time in my life where 1. I was the outsider (especially after Sister #1 was born). 2. I was freaking four years old. 3. I was immersed into a religious world where I could only grasp basic concepts like "being bad is wrong and you will go to hell."

Man, that going to hell thing sounded sucktastic. I did not want to go there. Ever. So, I started to worry a lot about whether or not I was making the right choices. But I wasn't especially good at determining WHAT I should feel guilty about. I felt bad if other people did wrong things. I felt bad if I did things, even if they weren't necessarily wrong. I felt bad if someone in a movie did something wrong. I remember as a kid staring into my closet and trying to pick out clothes for the day. I was stalled because I felt awful about all the other clothes that wouldn't get worn. Process that for a second. I didn't want the other CLOTHES to feel bad because they didn't get chosen. I felt guilty for picking out a shirt and pants.

While I was in Catholic school, I had to go to confession once a week. So, I'd go sit in a big, dark booth, and tell some faceless guy on the other side about all the times I was bad. I had to think really hard some weeks about being bad because I was a kid, and generally, I didn't do much in the way of sinning. (That came later. Heh.) So, I'd say stuff like, "I hit my sister." It didn't matter that she hit me first, either. Self-defense claims didn't get me out of penance, so I had to say my "Our Fathers" and "Hail Marys."

Throughout my life, guilt was a faithful, if unwanted, emotional companion. The first words out of my mouth, almost all the time, no matter the topic, was, "I'm sorry." I apologized all the time. Uttering those words so often devalued their meaning. It wasn't sincerity or sympathy that created the need to apologize; it was the desperate need to not feel guilty. I wanted absolution from people. I wanted not to feel bad.

I think, these days, I have a handle on the guilt monster. I'm much, much better at not apologizing, especially for crap I didn't do, but yeah, I still do it. But at least it's a more conscious undertaking than it used to be. And here's the thing about guilt. I understand it's purpose, which is to remind me about fortitude, courage, and owning what's MINE. That means letting other people own their shit, too. I remember it's not my fault if someone else screws up, acts grumpy, or fails. If this person is someone I love, I have to remember to step back and let them work out the issue. If you've read my blog for any length of time, you no doubt realize that my ability to let go of burdens that are not mine to bear is directly related to letting go of a bad marriage. Life lesson #241: If you want life to suck less, then do something different. It may be difficult, hell, it may make you feel like you got whaled on by Mike Tyson, but DO SOMETHING DIFFERENT.

So, yeah. Ahem.

Here's my theory about emotions: They're guides to decision-making. You have a personal moral code, a set of principles crafted by your experiences and what's important to you, and you have emotions. Then, of course, you have emotional deterrents, such as rationalizations. It's easier to justify certain behaviors to accommodate whatever course of action you've chosen. But after a lifetime of that bullshit, I don't want to justify anything. If guilt's job is to remind me to stay the course, then sometimes, I listen. But if I really want to go off the path, my thought is this: I will take the hit. I will own the choice. And I will not regret it.

Balancing acts

2011-03-29T09:59:00.001-05:00

I like being busy. The alternative to busy is being bored, and nobody wants a bored writer wreaking havoc on the world. Okay, okay. I don't wreak havoc (but I aspire to do that one day, because it sounds fun and maybe there are explosions and car chases). When I get bored, I loll on the couch and watch TV and eat chocolate-covered foods.

I haven't had a chance to be bored lately, which I suppose is a good thing. But, you know, there is busy, and oh-my-God busy, and are-you-freaking-insane busy, and oh-shit-did-I-just-say-yes-to-something-else-oh-my-God-I'm-freaking-insane busy.

I'm in the middle of that last kind of busy, and have been for the last few weeks. Oh, yeah. It's the busy of all busyness that makes me quiver in fear and sweat bullets and assume fetal positions in corners ... until I realize if I don't tackle SOMETHING, I will be buried alive with obligations. When I don't post on Facebook for a couple of days, people will come looking for me, and have to dig through papers, and books, and half-finished to-do lists, and chocolate wrappers, and exploded computer bits to drag out my cold, dead body. I will be dressed in pajamas, the keyboard clutched in one hand, and an empty box of Godiva in the other.

Not that I'm being dramatic, or anything.

This is often the way I feel on Mondays, but right now, it's an every day thing. I wake up, and smile, and then I think of massive to-do list ... and well, coffee time! I have a vague plan to create lists for daily tasks, and weekly tasks, and oh-crap-that's-really-late-get-it-done-now lists, but that takes time, and I have a book due um ... yesterday-ish (so naturally I'm blogging, because THAT MAKES SO MUCH FREAKING SENSE).

I know how to be organized. Externally. If you came to visit and you snooped around my cabinets, you would see everything in order. Even my junk drawer is organized. I don't like piles of random stuff. I don't mind life messes: You know, the occasional unmade bed, a book left on a table, a couple of dishes in the sink. It's those "I don't know what to do with this so I'll shove it in here for the next three years" messes that make me twitch. The very idea that something doesn't have a place annoys me. Everything should have a proper place, right?

(Note: I promise you this is not a digression. Or if it is a digression, I'll make it mean something when I wrap up this blog. Really. I'm a writer. And a woman. I can justify anything, baby.)

Life, however, cannot be divvied up and put into labeled boxes or specifically designated shelves. (Hah! Digression avoided!) I've tried this. It doesn't work. Partly, this is because life includes other people who might not organize the way I do (or organize at all), and partly it's because life cannot be predicted, which means a crap storm can hit at any minute. No matter how separated I try to keep things, the fact is that they usually intersect. I don't think that's a bad thing, either, just an uncontrolled one.

And here's where we get to the crux of the situation. Control. For a very, very, (um, VERY) long time, my life was out of control. Sorry to go for the cliche here, but ... my life was like a dam that kept getting cracks. No matter how many times I tried to patch it up, it just got more leaks. Finally, the cracks got so big and wide and difficult to fix, that I finally said, "Screw it. Let it fall down." The water breaks through, the dam gives away, and I'm trying not to drown. When you get to that point, and it's a terrible place to be, you wake up every single morning to the sensation of drowning. Sometimes, you need people to pull you out and throw you onto dry land. That's what happened to me. I couldn't fix the dam, but I could get out of the water.

I wonder sometimes if finding balance is achievable. I don't think it is. Life is not a straight line in equal segmented parts. First of all, that line is not straight. It's curvy and goes over mountain ranges and into valleys and through swamps. Secondly, the segments are always unequal. Priorities shift all the time. If family needs have to be met, then something else, say work stuff, has to make room. Thirdly, dreams, goals, and needs change, and that re-arranges segments--sometimes adding or subtracting 'em.

So maybe living isn't a balancing act at all. Maybe living is being able to determine what's important at any given time and honoring whatever obligations (or sacrifices) that entails. Maybe it's culling away the old parts to make room for the new. Maybe living is about adapting constantly to change. If mistakes are made, then re-evaluation occurs and new strategies are formed. Progress, then, but not balance.

And I'm okay with that.

The power of love

2011-02-28T10:44:00.000-06:00

"If you have love, you don't need to have anything else. If you don't have it, it doesn't matter much what else you have."
~James M. Barrie

I love writing about love. Love is a great theme. Love is a core reality of who we are as human beings, and often motivates us--in both good and bad ways. Love is explored in all genres, too, whether its merely the requisite "create sexual chemistry with another character here" kind of thing or a genuine connection between two people racing to save the universe or catch the serial killer. And while the love story isn't the point of those novels ... well, there's still a love story, isn't there?

Just last night, I was talking to AVB (Awesome Viking Boyfriend) about how romance fiction isn't exactly a respected genre. It's definitely the money maker. Romance novels own 50% of mass market sales. And the genre brings in around 1.3 billion dollars a year. Still. If fiction is a playground, then the romance genre is the fat kid. It doesn't matter that she's rich, or that she writes well, or that she dominates the New York Times, Publishers Weekly, and USA Today bestseller lists. It's okay to call her names and tell her that she should lay off the love ho-ho's and start eating real fiction celery.

People insult the romance genre all the time. It doesn't make me want to picket other genres or get into a schoolyard rumble. I'm not ashamed that I write romance, and I don't care if other authors think writing love stories isn't as important as writing science fiction or urban fantasy or mystery. I've seen authors who've been lumped in with the romance genre (mentioned in the same blog or breath or whatever) try to distance themselves from it. Watching that hard scramble backward and expression of horror (Ew! Romance touched me!) amuses me. I mean, wow ... defensive much?

Believe me, I know how cheesy my genre can be. I've written some cheesy-assed things over the years, but that's okay. This is another thing I talked to AVB about ... romance isn't things. Romance isn't roses or stuffed animals or cute cards. It's not candlelit dinners or boxes of candy or back rubs (okay, maybe back rubs). Romance is finding meaning in moments. It's remembering that your significant other likes the color green, so you wear the green shirt (and not the one that says "I love Irish Beer"). It's looking your lover in the eyes and saying, "You mean the world to me." Romance is created by gestures: Making the bed, or cooking dinner, or holding hands and watching bad TV. Romance is expressing love by thought and by deed.

And that's why romance novels are so freaking popular. Women want to be appreciated and adored. They want to feel beautiful, especially when they're feeling the most vulnerable physically, without make-up or hairstyles or hell, even without clothes. When the man you're with looks at you, all of you, just as you are, and says, "You're gorgeous, and I'm so in love you," that's romance.

I have a wonderful time creating that soulmate connection between hero and heroine, and exploring all the aspects of romance. I enjoy that the themes of my novels are about relationships. Yep. I love writing about love.

"All, everything that I understand, I understand only because I love."
~Leo Tolstoy

In the midst of chaos comes clarity...

2011-02-24T10:26:00.000-06:00

I love those moments in action films when there's an elaborate pause, just that few seconds slowed down and sharpened, when the hero realizes he's in trouble. The audience can see the bullet twisting through the air, or the sword gleaming as it slashes down, or the click and whoosh of the bomb before it explodes.

Sometimes, clarity brings with it a sense of peace. You reach a pinnacle of knowledge, of a choice that must be made no matter how painful, and somehow, too, the courage needed to make it, to move forward. It's like that climactic scene in The Matrix when Neo comes back from death and sees the world around him as it really is ... and how to operate within it. All those earlier problems that seemed so scary and impossible are nothing more than annoyances. There is strength and power and knowledge, and that creates confidence.

Yes, there is power in knowing a truth about yourself. There's nothing more awesome than untangling an emotional knot and laying out all the now straightened strands for examination. And you can see those elements are not quite as important, or as impossible, as previously believed. And here, yet another movie reference (sorry, I can't seem to stop myself): It's like that scene in Labyrinth when Sarah looks at the Goblin King and says, "You have no power over me."

When fussing with a particularly thorny problem, my vision is blurry and gray around the edges, and my stomach feels like I've swallowed shards of glass and pieces of lead, and I can't breathe or think and everything just feels so freaking heavy. In these moments, I try to remember what a friend of mine always tells me, "Nothing is forever." Or another variation: This, too, shall pass. It really helps to know that I will not always be standing in this place dealing with that situation. There will be relief. Change. Knowledge. Clarity.

Sometimes, this means accepting oh, that ... my daughter and grandson must return to their lives in Florida. To the core, I know this is the right thing for them, and for me, but the day they leave, I'll be sad. And yeah, I'll cry. But past the sadness, even past the acceptance, is the peace created by the realization this is right. Good. Exactly as it should be.

And last week, after being emotionally wrought (Dear Insecurities: You sucketh much.), I muddled through it all and found myself not only reassured, but suddenly sure. Uh-huh. Filled to the brim with the knowledge that I could not only claim the wonderful, I already had. It was mine. Confidence and peace. Clarity.

Happiness on swift wings

2011-02-17T09:44:00.003-06:00

When I was a child, I learned happiness was fleeting. Because I did not understand that life could be mercurial (especially with an alcoholic parent), it always felt like happiness was being snatched away. Then I started to fear being happy. Any hint of joy had me in an instant panic because that meant pain was sure to follow (or to appear and stomp joy into tiny, bloodied bits).

I know this sounds messed up. But it sure made writing Lucinda Rackmore from NEVER AGAIN easier. She's seeking sanctuary, and when she's finally offered some kindness, she runs away from it. She doesn't trust it because as she thinks: It's like falling into a pit of vipers and finding a plate of chocolate chip cookies.

To write dark elements, especially those stemming from emotional wounds, you must understand them. And by "understand," I really mean "experience."

I am damaged. I know this. Maybe most human beings are, just to varying degrees. We all have sorrows that motivate us, right? Yesterday, I looked in the mirror and was stunned to see anguish lurking in my own gaze. I am better than I used to be, but I have not conquered all my insecurities. Does anyone ever? I think I have to be vulnerable, and risk hurt, and if hurt comes (and it always does, sometimes in small ways, sometimes in big, cry-your-eyes-out ways), then have the courage to move through it. Oh, and as a writer, to remember that moment, in all its dark, ugly pain, so I can give an honesty and depth to my characters. No emotional experience should ever be wasted. So, yes, move through the hurt ... and do not wallow, or write bad poetry, or whine about the unfairness of life.

When I write romance novels, I am creating heroes who can look at heroines and see that anguish, and they don't care. They're in. All the way. Love is about being unselfish. But it's always about truth, about seeing the other person standing there, damage and flaws and all, and reaching out anyway. In romantic fiction, love conquers all, and it should. Love should conquer all.

I understand now that happiness will not be snatched away randomly. Or even if it is, that doesn't mean I won't ever have it again. I know that life is about moments. I can experience joy or laughter even within the ongoing experience of being hurt. We are not meant to linger in that bubble of pain and fear and grief. We are meant to be strengthened by it, to be re-created, and re-born, and better because of it.

So, yes, I am damaged.

But I am not broken.

The vulnerable heart...

2011-02-14T09:08:00.000-06:00

I have a box full of jewelry. It's all pretty enough, and there's plenty to match different outfits, and shopping for shinies is always fun. Honestly? I could lose, break, or give away any of 'em, and never think about 'em again. My jewelry serves a purpose, like so many other items of comfort, beauty, and convenience, but they have no real meaning to me. Not a single piece I own symbolizes anything of import.

Save one.

For my birthday, I was given a necklace. The man who bought it for me found it at place we had once whiled away an afternoon. The blue topaz that gleams from the gorgeous silver chain was chosen because he researched the term "writer's stone." And then ... oh, then he said he added something else to that gem: his passion.

I write about these kind of moments, the ones we sigh over, the ones that make our hearts flutter, and our desires stir. In my novels, I explore the emotional and physical intimacy between the hero and the heroine. I make them expose their vulnerabilities, sacrifice their personal dreams, and risk it all, every single time, so that they can claim each other, and love, and happily-ever-after.

In fiction, romance unfolds as that terrifying need, that wondrous connection, that inexorable moment of "I would do anything for you." In real life, it takes on a comfortable rhythm, like a heartbeat, like breathing, and yet, it still has the ability to make you ache and smile and think, "Yes. You're the one. Always."

To fall in love, you must be defenseless. You must leave the heart unguarded, to either be embraced or wounded, because there is no other way to offer yourself to another.

I always wear the necklace. Throughout the day, I touch that stone, and think of the moment I opened the box and saw that blue topaz, glittering like a promise, like a heart unguarded. His. And mine.

You want some whine with that?

2011-02-10T14:42:00.002-06:00

I hate feeling needy.

It makes me remember The Before Times, and I really hate visiting the past. Every so often, I have to access those memories, those feelings, because I never, ever want to be that person again, in that life. It's important to remember the Icky-Ucky, so I don't repeat bad behaviors or make the same mistakes.

I read a quote recently from Robert Louis Stevenson: Everyone, at some time or another, sits down to a banquet of consequences. As a writer, I cannot look away from what makes me uncomfortable or ashamed. Also, I cannot change the decisions I made. I can only move forward, try every day to be better than I was, and attempt to keep the self-flagellation to a minimum.

It's been long enough, and I'm steady enough, to know I'm not carrying around as much baggage. I hate baggage, too. I've entered a new relationship and I don't find myself creating parameters based on my craptastic marriage. It's not fair to hold anyone else up to the standards (or sub-standards) someone else created--and let's face it, I accepted.

I know my worth now.

Ever since I crawled out of the rubble of my old life and built another one on a much more solid foundation, I've been all, "I am woman, hear me roar." I enjoyed being single. I got to sleep in the middle of the bed. I didn't have to share the remote. Everything was exactly where I left it. I didn't have to debate about what to have for dinner, who's slacking in the chore department, or who left whose socks on the floor. Again.

It's odd to find myself inside a romance. Some days, it's like I'm writing my own life. It's weird. It's awesome. And it's ... scary. Just a little. I'm officially a girlfriend. And my boyfriend is handsome, and honorable, and steady, and brilliant. He is trustworthy. He is forthright. He is kind. He looks at me in that way (you know what I mean, right?), and my heart skips a beat.

We spend the weekends together, and we talk or text or email during the week. Yet, some days, hours and hours would go by, and despite daily evidence he always gets in touch, I started to feel a terrible ache. I didn't recognize what it was. It felt like "needy," which made me feel even more awful. One evening, I was talking to AVB (Awesome Viking Boyfriend), and as I was confessing this feeling, I realized I was admitting to feeling insecure. Well! I didn't really know how he felt, did I? Just because he spent every weekend with me, and contacted me every single day, and did sweet things for me, didn't mean he ... oooooooh.

I'm haunted by the ghosts of old fears. The. Hell. So, I exorcised those wispy bastards, and then ate some Godiva chocolate. What? I told you. I hate feeling needy.

Nibbled to death by marmots

2011-02-07T15:14:00.001-06:00

I ~~stole~~ liberated the title of this post from Chuck Wendig's The Penmonkey's Paean. 'Cause that's kinda how I feel today.

It's not even a particularly "oh my God, the marmots are swarming" kind of day. Those days are so mind-numbing, I don't have to think, only do, so by the time I face plant into bed, I'm asleep before I can give in to the urge to scream.

Oh, yeah. You know what I'm talking about it.

But today, the marmots are not swarming, but nibbling. Part of it, okay, most of it, is my fault because I'm ... well, me. I need to write. I need follow up on promotional obligations. I need to make plans with friends. I need to do that counseling thing with my kid. I need to write. I need to read that pile of books ... oh, wait, that's not on the list at all. I want to read the pile of books by my bed. I need to do errands. I need to email 50 gabillion people. I need to write. Gotta do housework (Dear God, when was the last time I cleaned the bathrooms?). Oh, and the cat litter (My life has far too much poop variety in it. Cats. Dogs. Babies.). Cleaning out the closet (it's collapsing in on itself because everything I don't want to deal with has been migrating to one shelf, and now it's a terrifying mess that I have to unknot ... yay, me). Ugh. I can't look anywhere without seeing something needs to be done. Damn it. I have to take a shower, too. Maybe eat something (coffee isn't really a food group, even though I treat it like one). Maybe getting on Facebook to ask for spaghetti sauce recipes wasn't a priority, even though it feels like one because I want to cook for the Viking this weekend.

None of these things are hard. Well, maybe the closet thing, but I can handle it. It's the number of tasks needed, the knowledge I cannot do everything today (gah!), and the realization some of this crap will need to be done again. Hmmm. Gotta blog on the League once a month now. Frontline the dogs. Send my editor that new list of titles. Stress about money. Write. Bathe the dogs. Send my agent an update email. Stress about dishes and cat litter. Write.

I'm tired. I don't have time to take a shower. Do I? Maybe I should. I don't know. Let me debate about that for the next ten minutes and use up the actual time I could be showering. 'Cause that's the nibbled-to-death-by-marmots way, my friends. Oh. There's the buzz of the dryer. Shit. I forgot I was doing laundry.

Yearning and other heartaches

2011-01-31T12:47:00.002-06:00

There is a couple in NOW OR NEVER who cannot be together. Rather, the guy in that relationship, Anthony "Ant" Mooreland, will not cross the line into a romantic liaison. He wants to, but his girl, Happy, is three years younger, seventeen to his twenty. Three years. And it seems like three-thousand.

When I first introduced Happy to the Nevermore world, I had no idea that she and Ant would develop this yearning for each other. As I wrote the end of NEVER AGAIN, and watched them connect in that soulful way so many of us wish for (and why so many of us read and/or write romance novels), I knew it wasn't time to write their story.

In NOW OR NEVER, Ant refuses to move out of the friendship circle. Happy would fall into his arms if he even aimed his lips in her direction, but she respects his struggle for honor, for control, even though it hurts her.

And here's the thing: Love hurts.

It makes you vulnerable. It makes you worry. It makes you yearn.

Yearning. It's an ache that pierces your belly and sits there like a pool of acid, like a bag of rocks, like a pile of knives. You wonder ... did I say the wrong thing? Do the wrong thing? What if finally, some way, some how, I broke the bond? And yes, as I answer these questions, explore these feelings with my characters, I find myself trapped in the same unbearable place as they are. Life reflected in writing.

To want so much, so deeply, so endlessly ... it hurts. It wraps around your heart and squeezes. It crawls into your brain and burrows. It slithers over your lungs and suffocates. Today, I can't breathe. I ache. I yearn. And even though it's torture, I endure. I wait. I write.

When the past comes to visit...

2011-01-26T11:27:00.000-06:00

Characters need flaws. It's what makes them interesting, and makes them seem more like real people. I particularly like exploring the emotional landscape of wounded characters, not only because some issue in their past created who they are today, but also because in the course of the book, they must come to terms with whatever they did.

I like when a character who made a terrible mistake seeks out redemption, and eventually finds a way to reconcile their past with their present. It's a theme I explore because of my own regrets, and certainly my own bad decisions. Characters may find peace, but sometimes, we real humans never do. Whatever our mistakes may be, whatever sins we've committed, they motivate us ... either toward self-destruction or self-realization.

I also like the idea of finding forgiveness. Sometimes, there's no taking back something awful I said or did. There's no changing it, and there's no fixing it. Every try to forgive yourself? Especially for something really terrible? Especially when the person who was hurt can't, or won't, give you absolution? I've been on either side of that equation. We all have. And in fiction, I can explore the nooks and crannies of a situation that has affected characters so deeply, it drives everything they do.

In NEVER AGAIN (March 1, 2011 ... see the subtle hint about my upcoming release?), my hero and my heroine are haunted by their respective pasts. Lucinda is tormented because of the mistakes she's made, mistakes that have cost her everything, and Gray is still wounded by the betrayal that sent him to hell--and nearly ended his life. As soul-weary as these two are, they still find in one another redemption, forgiveness, and hope. It's a long journey, a difficult one, that requires sacrifices, the defeat of personal demons, and the final, terrifying leap into trust ... and love.

We cannot escape our pasts. Some demons, we learn to live with. And some regrets, well, they'll be part of our personal make-up till our dying days. That's life. What we must do is find more joy than sorrow, more love than hate, and maybe ... hopefully ... that one person who understands us best of all, and accepts all that we are (and doesn't give a good goddamn about all we are not). We are worthy of forgiveness, especially from ourselves. We are worthy of good things and good people. And we do not have to look into the abyss of the past, not when there is so much beauty and bounty unfolding before us right now.

Oh, the questions you will ask...

2011-01-07T12:06:00.001-06:00

I posted some time ago on my other (now closed) blog about the questions my son asks me. All the time. I dusted it off and updated it. (Think of it like those oh-so-fun re-cap episodes on long-running TV shows. You're welcome.)

My son likes to ask me the same questions. He gets the same answers, but I think he lives for the hope that one day I might forget I answered the question, or change my mind, or ... you know, forget I answered the question. Or maybe he just enjoys slowly driving me insane. It's a toss-up.

1. What's for dinner?
You never really want to know, son. You just hope the answer will be pizza. It's not like you want anything other than pizza, so the answer, unless it's pizza, never satisfies you. I know it's too much to hope you will eat a vegetable, but I have to keep trying. And no, Pepsi and a Kit Kat do not, and will not, EVER count as "dinner."

2. Why do you love the dogs more than me?
Love is infinite. I don't have to love something less to love you more. Please note: The dogs don't complain when I kiss and hug them and make smoochy woochy noises. Also, they never slam the door, get all grumpty-grump with me, and they like me ALL the time. They also never piss me off to the point I think about locking them in a closet, and two seconds later, even though I'm still FURIOUS with [insert HULK MOM ANGRY action here], they don't have the nerve to ask me to fix them something to eat. Seriously. That's love, kid.

3. Why do I have to go to school?
To get yourself an education so you can apply for college and move out of my house in five years. I just want what's best for you. And also, the return of my sanity. I love you. (No, I don't love the dogs more than you. See response to Question 2.)

4. Why do you have to work?
Yeah. I'm real sorry my deadlines and writing schedule interfere with my slave duties. (I've said it before, and I'll say it again, you're old enough to read directions and work a microwave.) The thing is, you enjoy food, shelter, and that Xbox 360, all of which cost money. I know you think I skip on over to the magic present forest and pluck all that we need from the enchanted trees of wonderfulness, but no, kid, I gotta work.

5. When will you get paid? I want _____.
You know how it works. Every so often, when it's the third Tuesday of the thirteenth month on a full moon and a blood sacrifice has been made, mommy gets a paycheck. After I do things like pay for food (lots and lots of food because you EAT EVERYTHING) and shelter and Xbox 360 points, we examine the tattered remains of my checking account and decide if you can have _____ and I can have chocolate. And vodka.

Rejection letters I wish I wrote

2011-01-06T11:13:00.000-06:00

Eons ago in a land called Las Vegas, Nevada I worked as an acquisitions editor for a small publishing company. Part of my job was to vet incoming submissions. The submission process worked there like it worked at other publishing houses: I would read queries and/or partials, write up rejections, or if something sounded interesting, I'd kick it up to the managing editor (and then he'd reject it, and I'd write the rejection letter). Every so often, a shiny concept would burst through all the crap, and we'd get ourselves a new author. It was rare, though ... like finding a gold nugget in your toilet rare.

At the time, I was also an aspiring writer traversing the ups and downs of the submission process with a little project called DADDY IN TRAINING. (I told you, EONS ago.) So, I felt deeply for those writers who sent their work to us, and I wanted to pet them and hold them and call them George.

Eventually, I got over that urge. I also realized the importance of using form rejection letters. It was just easier to check a box (because most submissions were rejected for the same reasons), and end with, "We wish you success with placing your project elsewhere," than it was to send out a personalized letter that outlined why their suckitude was so massive.

And that suckitude often had little to do with their writing, and a lot to do with their attitudes. I can classify these writers, too. I bet every poor sap acquiring editor can. I've named a few below, along with what I really wanted to say in their rejection letters.

1. I have a concept so great I can't tell you about it, but if you send me a contract and money, I'll give it to you.

Who are you? God? You do NOT have a concept so great you must keep it a secret until we've exchanged papers and gold bullion. How many of these queries did you send out? How many offers came pouring in? And if it is an idea so astounding, it would rock the entire world to its core, then why the hell did YOU think of it? Because you obviously don't know how to follow submission guidelines or how to turn off the ALL CAPS on your keyboard. If I'm wrong to reject you and your universe-ending concept ... well, just add me to your really, really long list of unappreciated, stupid editors that you will not submit to again EVER.

2. I know you don't publish what I'm pitching, but believe me, you'll make an exception because you'll LOVE my book just that much.

No, I won't. You know what I love? Writers who pay attention to guidelines and who understand that we cater to a niche market with an audience we spent years and years building, and who like us BECAUSE we cater to those specific topics. THEY don't care if you wrote the next great alien action-adventure romance set in the Andromeda galaxy and beyond, so WE don't care. We are a publishing company. We want to make money. We want to make our customers happy. We want manuscripts that will enlighten and/or entertain our readership who expect us to deliver quality books about our specialties. Capiche?

3. I know you only accept queries, but I've enclosed my partial anyway to save you the time it would take for you to request it.

Gee. Thanks. Now, I have to figure out what to do with this massive envelope of crap I did not ask for, and even if you wrote it with gold ink, I don't really want to read it because I'm annoyed you sent it without getting the go-ahead. In other words, I'm CRANKY and do you want me to read your unrequested partial while I'm feeling like a troll on the hunt for human flesh? We have guidelines for a reason. Never assume that you are an exception because your awesomeness will automatically slay an editor's inner beast. NOBODY'S that awesome.

4. I've sent you a gift because I read on the publisher's website that you really like snow globes. I hope this will smooth way for you to consider my work. (Wink, wink.)

Bribery doesn't work. It's not cute. It's ... well, kinda creepy. My publisher will not allow us to accept gifts of any kind because we publish advice and reviews about certain topics, and our reputation is built on our integrity. Maybe you should look up that word, so you know what it means before you send out more of your creeptastic bribes to other publishers. (Note to self: Add "Don't send presents to editors ... duh!" to the website guidelines.)

5. Dear Editor of the 700th publishing house I've sent this letter to ... you know, the one I've copied so many times, the ink is kinda gray, the paper is cheap, and the query printed out crooked. I don't really care because I'm too lazy to research your company, your name, and your current address, and then write a tailored, professional query.

Wow, dude. I got a paper cut whipping out my form rejection letter for you. I checked the box, "Does not meet our criteria." Unlike you, I actually signed my name at the bottom with real ink and everything, and hey, look at my professional letterhead and pretty paper. It's more than you deserve.

Well, that's just a sampling. Crazy, right? You can see why editors go home all puffy-eyed and soul-weary, and stick a straw in a bottle of Jack to suck on while they watch CSI reruns. Writers make them insane. And they deal with the same crap every day. I got letters like the ones I've listed above all the time. It's why they rank a classification and not a, "Hey that's a weird one-time thing, huh?"

Getting a well written query about a project we might actually publish was a real pleasure--like getting a whiff a lavender floating through the stink of a shit-filled field. Finding a writer who paid attention to the guidelines, to how I spelled my name (one L, people, ONE L), who researched what we published and could tell me why their book would fit in with our catalog ... oh, lawd. It made me wanna weep with joy.

These were the same writers who, even if rejected, would send me a nice thank-you. Maybe we couldn't take on their project, but I was lot happier to help guide them in another direction, or send specific suggestions about their works. Unlike the writers who, usually guilty of any of the infractions I listed above, would send me letters telling me how I stupid I was for not accepting their books, which were obviously bestsellers-in-waiting. (Seriously. If you never want to sell a book, go on and be a douchebag to an editor. It's a small world, folks.)

At the end of the day, the one way a writer can get some notice is to be polite and professional. You'd think that would be a given, but yeah ... not so much. Be humble, have a sense of humor, take any rejection with a grain of salt, and be nice. Even if it kills you.

Dream on

2011-01-05T09:24:00.002-06:00

I like to dream. Sometimes, I can loll on my couch or bed for hours doing nothing more than thinking. I did it this morning. I woke up too early, and I didn't want to get up. I mean, sure, I could have had an extra hour of productivity, but ... the hell with that.

I lolled.

In the dark and quiet of my bedroom with my puppies snuggled on either side of me, I just let my thoughts run wild. I don't always think about my books. Okay, yeah. A great deal of the time, I'm mentally gnawing on the bits of stories, but I also dream about other stuff. Things I want. People I miss. Places to visit. I explore it all in my mind.

There's something wonderful about taking a journey through what-might-be. It doesn't even matter if what I'm dreaming about comes to fruition. The fun part is searching through the possibilities. I can try on one after another without worrying about how much it costs, if it'll fit, how I accomplish it, or if it can be done. All it really costs me is time, and when I finally drift back into reality, I feel inspired. And hopeful.

I know it's difficult for some people to just ... be. It probably feels strange to just sit and do nothing. I have friends who think so hard, I'm surprised their brains haven't melted. I know what it's like to have thoughts tangled up in to-do lists, productivity charts, and organizational worries. Not to mention the guilt weaving through all that mess because there's so much to be done and there aren't enough hours in the day. It's exhausting. But I never want to be so worried about everything all the time, I forget to dream. Or ignore the opportunity for lolling because actively doing nothing feels wrong. Like I said before, the hell with that.

I know not everyone processes the way I do. There are loll-arounders like me, and you know, those other people. I suppose as long as we all find some way to dream, to inspire ourselves, and to enjoy life, no matter how small the moments ... well, it's all good.

I got flow, baby

2011-01-04T09:54:00.001-06:00

I get questions all the time about how I deal with writer's block. I don't have a method, mainly because I don't believe in hitting a mental wall so hard, the words stop flowing. I'm not discounting the trials and tribulations of other writers who struggle to put words on the page. We all have our experiences, and our methods for staying productive.

Mine is simple: Write anyway.

That's not to say that I haven't struggled. I've stared at my manuscript and thought, "What the hell am I doing?" And always I come to that point in a book where I think, "THIS is the book I will not finish. Just because I've written eleventy others, doesn't mean I know what I'm doing."

I've talked about doubt and fear before. Those little bastards can drill into your brain like earworms, whispering, whispering ... about how much you suck. Well, there's always someone somewhere who thinks I suck. So what? I still have to finish the book. I still have to make the deadline. I still have another book to write after this one. Dear earworms: Shut up. YOU suck.

I get in my own way all the time. I'm the queen of procrastination. I can find multiple reasons why I must play Rock Band and/or clean the bath tub instead of make word count. It's stupid. It's ... so not cool. But there I am, with drum sticks or sponge in hand, drumming or scrubbing, and thinking about the book. Which is wonderful an' all except I'm not psychically capable of using Word yet (but that would be awesome, right?).

I also know that as much as I futz around, I'll still do what needs to be done. I know that if I get stuck, I need to re-think my direction. Sometimes, it means going back and rewriting an earlier section, or introducing a new character, or I need to dump the plot thread and start over. Eventually I figure it out--sometimes because I'm doing something else, such as playing drums or scrubbing the bath tub. (Justification, just another thoughtful service provided by yours truly.)

Eventually, I sit down, suck it up, and write until my fingers go numb and my eyes get red, and I forget to eat. The words flow because, as Chuck Wendig says in The Penmonkey's Paean, "This book is not the boss of my shit," and damn it, the novel gets done. Because it has to. Because this is my job. My dream. And writer's block and earworms cannot stop me.

The people you know

2010-12-30T12:19:00.000-06:00

Writers are nosy. We eavesdrop. We watch. We take notes. Then we use whatever information we glean. I don't mean we necessarily take a ... well, say a conversation between an arguing couple, and put it on the page exactly. I mean we use that moment--a moment that certainly doesn't belong to us, but we claim anyway--to create something new or to improve something already there in our work. We remember facial expressions, hand gestures, tone of voice, the look in someone's eyes as they whisper or they laugh. It's the well that we draw upon when we write about our characters.

It's not always a conscious process. Our ears and eyes and minds are open to the experiences unfolding around us. Granted, I know that for myself, I can be so interested in what other people are doing, I forget to pay attention to what I'm supposed to be doing (or, y'know, that I'm with a person who wants to talk to me and not watch me stare in fascination at the people around us ... what?). The thing about being an observer, about being someone who's constantly in her own head, thinking about stories or dreaming about traveling or wondering what that girl over there is feeling as she shovels ice cream into her mouth (Did she break up with someone? Does she just REALLY like vanilla? Is she gonna finish that whole thing?) ... um, well, you can see the problem.

Anyway.

If we're really lucky, we find in the actions of others a plot twist, a character flaw, a sudden realization for solving a problem in Chapter 12, or a snippet of something we haven't quite defined, but we save for later. Being all up in someone else's business (quietly and indirectly, of course) is only one way writers fill the well. Sometimes, we steal from the people we know ... and by "steal," I mean "appropriate for creative purposes." A friend's quirk or catch word, something funny said in conversation, an incident that becomes an inside joke, a look or gesture ... these things are imprinted along with other observations. Sometimes, we use them on purpose, but mostly, I think they enter the flow of our writing on their own.

I enjoy being alone in a quiet room with just my computer and my thoughts (and my puppies for emergency snuggles). I can spend hours--hell, days--on my own without talking to or looking at another human being. But eventually I seek out connection. Sometimes, it's just being with a good friend, and sometimes it's going out among the masses. Sure, it's about being counted among them, even though I don't usually feel part of the crowd. I'm on the outside of it all, waiting ... and watching.

Writer's FAQ: What's an editor's role?

2010-12-18T10:47:00.000-06:00

In one of my writing workshops, a participant posted: "Remember how I said I was relatively new to this? Well, reading what you said about your editor ... I suddenly don't know what an editor is for. I thought they just made sure all the sentence structure was good and made sure points came across clearly. How does an editor make choices for the progression of a story? Please help me understand."

If you're hiring a freelance editor, then yes, we're talking about an individual who line edits and critiques your work. However, editors at publishing houses are more "big picture" kind of people, and don't really do a lot of the nitty gritty work (that's for the copy editor).

When you sell your book, you have to start thinking of your novel as a group project. Everyone from the editor to the marketing department will have input on some level. It typically works like this (at least for me):

* You submit a proposal to your editor, who will usually respond with feedback. You adjust accordingly and then write the entire book, which you submit to the editor. Even if you sell a complete novel for the first time, there will almost always be revisions. I think of the editor, her assistant, marketing, publicity, and even the freaking copy editor (who usually makes me crazy) as my team. I listen to their concerns and their suggestions. They have experience and knowledge about publishing that I don't, so I usually follow their advice. They want the book to be a success, too, so why would I discount all they have to offer?

* After you submit the finished novel, you will almost always get revisions. Sometimes, your editor will offer a few in-manuscript edits, but usually the feedback is in the form of an email with very specific suggestions about tightening plots, cutting or adding scenes, strengthening characters, and so forth. Then you revise the book. I usually follow my editor's advice, but there are times I choose not to take a suggestion and I always explain why. Sometimes, the editor will ask you to cull through the manuscript a third time, just to make sure everything's as good as possible. (Or even more times, depending on the book, the author, and the production schedule.)

* Once the editor approves the final manuscript, it goes off to production. This is usually the time you'll get marketing's version of your blurb, and you and your editor fix and tweak where necessary. This is also the time that marketing will do a cover art conference and your editor will often ask for your ideas. While all of this is going on, you should be working on the next book due (or the next book to sell). At some point, you'll get the copy edits. A lot of publishers are now sending electronic edits (which is fine with me b/c I was an e-book author first and that's how I learned track changes in Word). You'll spend some time going through the manuscript and approving the fixes (or rejecting them) and answering any queries the CE makes about content. (You make want to drink alcohol through this process.) Then you send the copy edited manuscript back to your editor, who goes through the manuscript and makes the final changes that you approved and/or added/changed yourself. Then it goes back to production.

*After a while, you get the galleys. Galleys are the typeset copies of your manuscript, basically the final layout that goes to the printer. It's your last opportunity to catch errors such as typos or misspelled words. At this point, it's too late to make major changes. (In fact, if you try to change more than 10% of the book, you can be charged typesetting fees because it costs the publisher money to reset the entire work.) You're really just making sure everything's in order and ready to go. BTW, your galleys are what the publisher uses to make your ARCs (Advanced Reading Copies). These are the versions of the books that go out to booksellers and reviewers. Usually the ARCs are issued before any needed changes are made in the galleys, which is why there's always a disclaimer on the ARC about it not being the final version, and that it may have errors, et al.

So what? I'm still a wri-ter. I got my word moves...

2010-12-17T14:20:00.000-06:00

Being the awesome mother I am, I hied my slovenly ass up to the middle school to sign my son out early so he could come home and start winter break with a big ol' nap. (See? I AM awesome.)

One of his friends was in the front office checking out, too, and he looked me over and asked, "Are you sick?"

"No," I said defensively. "I'm a writer on deadline." I think what he meant to say was, "Holy crap, lady. You actually go out into public looking like THAT? Aren't you afraid of causing the elderly to have heart attacks and frightening small children into lifetime therapy?" Only he's twelve-a-teen and knew better than to tell me I looked like cat puke.

Anyway, I (lightly) punched him in the arm and said, "Don't call me sick. I don't want to be sick. If you say sick, I might get sick." What I meant to say was, "It's not polite to notice I look like cat puke and then point it out by asking me if I'm sick. And oh yeah, shut up."

Someone recently mentioned to me the horror of witnessing the half-asleep, bra-less, PJ-wearing moms who drop their kids off at school. I said, "So what? I do that, too." On weekday mornings, I'm trying to get my kid to the Big Place of Learning pre-coffee and post-get-child-out-of-bed-without-going-Hulk, so the hell if I'm gonna worry about putting on a bra or ditching my comfort clothes on the off chance my appearance will make strangers blanch. I'm in my car, not skipping down the street with breasts a-swinging and pajamas a-flapping. Also, I'm trying to keep my shit together long enough to get home and get caffeine. If your eyes bleed from gazing upon the a.m. carnage of the drop-off lane, I offer this advice: Look. Away.

When I'm writing, I don't pay attention to much. If my children are silly enough to ask me questions, they receive glazed-eyed looks. I am able to muster up a laugh when my son, obviously forgetting he has the abilities to read directions and operate a microwave, pops in to ask for food. (Kitchen, son. Son, kitchen. Hope you enjoy a lifelong friendship.) To continue ... I walk around in a zombie state, muttering to myself, and I forget to shower and to eat and to do the dishes.

And yeah, I often venture out of the house in this state, usually wearing sweats, old T-shirts, and whatever shoes I can find. (Not the pretty ones, of course.) I put on my glasses, too, because driving without them would bring terror galore to Plano, and grab my purse (not a pretty one, of course). I only want to reach my goal of hitting the grocery store or post office or Starbuck's. I don't think about who might see me and render the judgment of "oh-em-gee, cat puke alert." I'm in my own head, thinking about my current story, or my upcoming story, or another story I really want to write. I don't particularly care what someone else might think of my disheveled self, mostly because I'm not looking at anyone else. Honestly, I don't give a damn what you look like or what you're doing because if you didn't come out of my vagina, I'm not responsible for you or your shit. Feel free to offer this same courtesy to me (and anyone else who might be standing in the cereal aisle staring at all the Fiber One options).

Doubt and fear can suck it

2010-12-16T10:10:00.008-06:00

Writers are neurotic messes. If you venture into creative endeavors, especially if you're crazy enough to try and live off whatever proceeds you can scrape up through said endeavors, then it's almost a requirement for you to be neurotic. In fact, it helps. Sometimes. I think.

Once you find the Holy Grail of the Search for Publication---an actual contract with an actual publisher who pays you actual money---a whole new set of neuroses is yours. Here's some of mine (I still suffer from most of these ... and yes, all writers probably need a brain scan. Or chocolate.):

* There are two Michele Bardsleys and they bought the other one's book, not mine, and at some point, someone will realize they've sent out the right contracts to the wrong person, and take it all back.

* Even though I signed the contract and sent it back, it's probably winding its way to a person who will realize I am the wrong Michele Bardsley, a terrible mistake has been made, and they will cancel everything.

*I haven't gotten the signing check, and NOW IT'S TOTALLY CONFIRMED that they're trying to figure out how to tell me they meant to give the contract and money to the other Michele Bardsley, who is obviously a BETTER WRITER and not a WHINER.

* I have the contracts and the signing money, so those suckers at the publishing house can't take back the deal or the cash. So now I have ... oh, shit. I have to write the book, and it has to be GOOD. No, GREAT.

* I'm mired in the book that is due in four ... er, two months and it's the crappiest crap of all crap ever. What was I thinking? I can't make a deadline. I can't write an ENTIRE BOOK based on my sucktastic concept. What was the PUBLISHER thinking?

* Even though I've managed to finish eleventy-whatever books just fine, this is the one I will fail to complete. The novel's stupid, anyway, and the middle is beyond awful. And so is the beginning. But not the end. Because I will never reach the end. I. Freaking. Suck.

* I reached the end, the book is done, my brain is fried, but, you know, the book is all right. Yeah. It's good. I can relax (oh, wait, another book is due). Note to self: Do not chew off nails waiting to hear back from the editor. Do not email your agent more than once a day to ask about revisions. Do not assume, ever, you won't have revisions because you're just that good. You're not that good. Just ask all those Amazon reviewers.

* Just got a huge revision email for the novel. Why did I think it was good? I should've realized that the heroine is unlikable, the action is implausible, the plot has Buick-sized holes, and ghosts can't sing. THEY CAN'T SING. Oh, and hey, it needs a few more words, too ... say 10,000 or so.

* Finished the revisions and the second set of revisions and did all those "few quick, tweaks", got through the copy edits without grinding my teeth down to nubs, read through the galleys, and now, miracle of miracles, the book is published. Even though I have placed a moratorium on reading my own Amazon reviews, a reader has emailed me about something someone said ... so now I have to go look. Why that pompous, ass-faced, motherf---. No. Nope. Uh-uh. Everyone's entitled to their opinions about my work. Even if their opinions suck.

Oh, yeah. This happens, people. Every time. Even if I manage to overcome the neuroses of one area, there springs forth a new place for doubt and fear to grow. By the time the book I've stressed out over (and over and over) finally hits shelves, I'm deep into the emotional mine field of a different project. Writers are really, really, really good at carving away at their own self-esteem and confidence (and we don't need the help of bloggers and reviewers, thanks).

Once you're published, there is a different crop of worries to cultivate: getting good sales numbers; trying to make bestseller lists; coming up with concepts that will ensure new contracts; promoting the upcoming release while trying to write the book that will come out a year and half from now; and getting paid. (There's always concerns about getting the publisher to cough up your moola.)

I've heard aspiring writers say, "I wish I had your problems." Hell, I've even said that to published authors when I was trying to get a foothold in this business. The point is that hey, you may have climbed one mountain, but in the distance, there's another one, bigger and more difficult to conquer. You know, like life. And doubt and fear can make you stumble or fall, or it can blind or immobilize you, or get you so lost, you want to curl up in a cave and cry yourself into a new reality.

So, writers have to make a choice: Let doubt and fear whittle away at the core of our passion for telling stories, or keep climbing the damned mountains no matter what. As long as you keep taking the steps, you'll get somewhere. It may not be exactly where you imagined when you started the journey, but it's different than from where you started. Keep going. Keep writing.

And tell doubt and fear to suck it.

(P.S. Check out Chuck Wendig's the Writer's Prayer AKA the Penmonkey's Paean.)

Do you believe in true love?

2010-12-13T12:22:00.000-06:00

Yes. I really do. Lots of people find love every day, not just the romantic kind, but every kind. For example: The adoration of a dog (there's nothing like it, and it's as true and pure as anything on this Earth); the absolute trust of a wide-eyed, smiling baby as you lift him into your arms; the acceptance of dear friends who know your secrets and your sins and love you anyway; and it's the sure knowledge harbored by your almost teenaged son that no matter how much grumpty-grump he throws your way, you will not smother him in his sleep.

True love, the pure distillation of joyful and unselfish acts, unfolds every day in every life. It's in those small moments, moments we might skip right by because we're busy, or we dismiss because they do not fit into our Big, Perfect Idea of Love.

I had a conversation with someone recently who said he didn't believe in true love. Love is a fantasy. I disagree. Love, like anything in our lives, is what we create by words, by deeds, by faith. It's taking the step off the cliff without knowing where we'll land. It's saying to another person: I'll take your hand and walk with you and see where the road takes us.

True love might not be forever love. It might a minute, a day, a lifetime. It might shine brighter in memory than in reality. It might be a singular moment when two people passing by each other share a smile. Maybe it's tucked inside the soft exhilaration of a kiss. Or maybe it's enjoying the beauty of a crisp December day and simply feeling to-the-core contentment.

I write romance novels because I enjoy writing about the tumultuous journey of two people falling in love. Yes, romance novels are fantasies. But love is real. True love exists. It's up to you to define it ... and to claim it.

Starting again ... and again ... and, oh yeah, again...

2010-10-14T15:13:00.002-05:00

I'm writing NOW OR NEVER, Book 2 in the Nevermore Wizards series. My original proposal was written right after I finished MUST LOVE LYCANS, Book 8 in the Broken Heart series. I hadn't quite switched mind frames because my editor's response to the NOW OR NEVER proposal was, "It's too Broken Heart."

And she was right.

Broken Heart has a casualness to it, an informal approach to narrative where slang, cussing, contractions, and colloquialisms create the familiar vibe.

Nevermore, despite being a small town in Texas with a slightly Southern feel, is more sophisticated. Urbane. Dark. Formal. It's not without its humorous moments, but unlike Broken Heart, the style is meant to loiter on the edge of urban fantasy and paranormal romance.

So, I started over. Because I didn't want to lose those pages of material I'd already written, I tried to re-work them into something more appropriate for the series.

I kinda succeeded.

Then I woke up the morning after that rewrite and realized that I needed to begin again. I may yet use those scenes in another part of the book, or maybe in another book, or maybe (probably) just as a bonus on my website. But I axed them.

I started over.

And then I ... started again. Just a little tweakage to make it better.

Fiction is wonderful that way. You can fuss and revise and cut and add and change. It was one of the real pleasures of writing, at least for me, the way a whole world can change because of a few new sentences or a deletion of dialog.

Wouldn't it be nice if life were like that? Not all the time, of course. In the real world, I can't change what I've said or done. I have to live with harsh words spoken too quickly or an impulsive act born of impatience and frustration. Yeah. In life, there are no do-overs. In fiction, there are endless do-overs. But there's not perfection. There's only "as good as I can make it right now." Oh, sure. I look back on previous novels and see how much progress I've made. I try to measure it in progress, too, and not failure.

And you know what? In real life, you may not get do-overs, but you get start-overs.

The point is to keep going and keep trying. To never give up. To remember, it's the journey that makes the story, and life, so worthwhile.

Circles

2010-07-29T19:08:00.001-05:00

I'm still reading THE HAPPINESS PROJECT. Gretchen Rubin is far too organized. Not only can you tell she's One of Those People by the way she chronicles her experiment in happiness, but also in how she comments about her own life. She is a chart person. A calendar person. A planner. It annoys the hell outta me. I know why it does, too. Because ... maybe ... I should be more a tad more organized. No, that's not quite right. I need to be more ... er, planner-y. Planner-ish. Cripes. I should ... you know, PLAN. More. Better. Or at all.

Damn it.

Naturally upon this personal, irritating revelation, I shut the book and decided some quality lolling was in order. Okay, okay. I thought, "Screw this. I'm going to do a whole lotta NOTHING because I haven't been paid, I don't have proposal approval so I can't write NEVER SAY NEVER yet, and hey, three years ago, I did say I would watch 'Chuck.'" So. Yes. It's a pity party. And a "Chuck" marathon. And snacking. And lolling.

Here's a little something I've recently figured out. I'd been told, numerous times, about the value of getting organized and hell, I've even given this lecture myself, but I guess I didn't really believe it. (Did I mention I was a gold medalist in denial?) Routine brings order. It's a natural shift, too. You do the same things at certain times, and then your life kinda aligns around it. The thing that no one added to the "organization lectures" was that it was okay to be flexible. If something I was doing consistently stopped working then I could, this being a world filled with choices and free will an' all, DO SOMETHING ELSE. Duh. Duh. Duh.

I have witnessed the positive changes that occurred when I took responsibility for my own life and my past decisions, and decided I would do better. I would be better. It was hard. It sucked. But I realized that not only did I survive it, I handled it. I like how my life feels these days, and I want to keep it. But life changes. Sometimes in the beat of a heart. Maybe that's why there is still underlying fear to conquer. The very old belief, that haunts me like a goddamned ghost, is that happiness is too fleeting. It can be yanked away, stomped on, shredded, and made to disappear. And here is where I realize I am struggling for control: Creating order will not prevent bad things from happening. I resisted the idea of sticking to routines and getting organized because life can go to hell anyway.

You know what? I don't want to live in a "preventative measures" state of mind. I suppose I'm still slipping out of crisis mode, still getting used to a life that is good. And more often than not, wonderful. I cannot predict what challenges will arrive, or even how I will handle them. I know, however, that I CAN handle them.

But there is more work to do. I'm fighting it, but I always do. That's part of the process, maybe. Or I'm just too stubborn. Either way, I won't give up. So, I'll continue to read THE HAPPINESS PROJECT and ruminate on which statements resonate for me.

And yeah, I'll go loll and snack and watch "Chuck."

Rumination takes more than one form.

Happy This

2010-07-27T16:34:00.002-05:00

I have decided that I must read inspirational books about the search for happiness. Generally my nonfiction reading is anything that strikes my fancy on the Yahoo! home page or something grammar related (such as the article about sub-modifiers at the Visual Thesaurus site).

I used to read self-help books all the time. I am a fixer. And fixers need tools. I remember surfing the Internet looking for charts and calendars and top-ten lists so I could feel like I was taking control of the chaos. It never worked. Polishing a pile of shit just gives you shiny shit.

I am not unhappy. I think the fact I can even examine the idea of living better, of being better is because I am in a fairly quiet place. I have stillness. But apparently, I am also yearning. And I've realized that while I am deeply satisfied with my life, that is not necessarily the same thing as being happy. I still want things, and I still feel inadequate and worried.

I finished EAT, PRAY, LOVE by Elizabeth Gilbert and I loved it. Her inspiration was derived from living four months each in three different places: Italy, India, and Indonesia. As much as I dream about living my own version of "Under the Tuscan Sun," I don't really want to move to Italy. It just doesn't seem the place for a girl who can't eat dairy--and who doesn't much like the sun, Tuscan or otherwise. As fascinated as I was by Gilbert's descriptions of the Ashram in India and the beauty and strangeness of Bali, those two places are not on my "want to visit" map. Even so, I was inspired by her journey. Reading her words made me realize I still have a lot of work to do.

I have already expressed my reluctance to pick up THIS IS NOT THE STORY YOU THINK IT IS... by Laura Munson. I will. I want to read the book, but not yet. Maybe it's because she begins with a crisis point in her marriage, in her life, really, and it feels too acute. I don't want to read about how she had some epiphany that led to renewal of marital love and devotion. This response smacks of envy, I know. My marriage could not be saved. Or rather, I could not save my marriage and myself. I had to choose.

So, I opened up THE HAPPINESS PROJECT by Gretchen Rubin with its perky blue cover and I read the section "Getting Started," which ended with: Whenever you read this, and wherever you are, you are in the right place to begin. I felt a hot lump in my throat, and sudden, inexplicable tears, and I thought "Oh, fuck," and I shut the book.

What the hell was THAT?

I was unnerved by this reaction. I had to think about it a while, dissect it the way I dissect everything, and I realized: I need to read the book. I also realized: I don't want to read the book.

Of course, I'm reading the book. Even as I absorb the simple brilliance of Rubin's ideas, I feel resentful. You may think it's stupid or strange to keep reading a book that invokes hostility, but for me, it's an emotional indicator that I will find something valuable in here. Something I need. It tells me that I am NOT as together as I previously thought, and I need to pay attention. So, I am.

This is also the reason I will read Munson's book. I don't want to because even that first chapter made my stomach flutter in so much recognition. I don't want to turn away from what makes me uncomfortable. I want to know why it does, and I want to deal with it.

Sometimes, as a writer, you have to go there, to those dark places, no matter how scared you are. Push through to the other side. You can do it, and you can make your characters do it, too. No doubt you've heard writers talk about "protecting their characters." That's the point in which you like your hero or heroine so much, you can't put them through the wringer. But the truth is this: The greater the tragedy, the greater the triumph. At least in fiction.

Sometimes, I wish certain events could be written under "The Past," and then each get a big red checkmark to indicate that it had been dealt with, and therefore was done. Forever. See the checkmark, Universe? That means I have completed the task, and it is not allowed to call me, or show up in the mail, or friend me on Facebook.

Life is messy. Fiction is not. Maybe that's part of why I write. Writing saved me many, many times. I write about worlds where characters are brave and strong and sure and lovable. They have flaws, yes, but ultimately, they are honorable. And at the end of the book, they are happy. And because I write romance, they are also deliriously in love.

I love writing. But though it is a reflection of living, it is not the same as living. So maybe that's why I'm delving into the inspirational journeys documented by other human beings. Maybe it's because I want to write my own story. No. I want to live it.

The road not written

2010-07-26T01:44:00.001-05:00

About a quarter till eleven last night, my son came into my room and flopped down next to me. "I'm bored."

Usually I ignore when he says this because he is always bored (particularly when waiting on something Xbox Live-ish to download), and I am not an entertainment director. But instead of sticking to the rehearsed script (dialogue which usually includes "leave me alone" and "I'm busy here, kid"), I turned to him and said, "Wanna take a drive?"

I have 1997 Mazda Miata. She's not as pretty as she used to be, but she's in good shape, and she's a convertible. I pushed down the top, my son loaded in the 1960s tunes, and we took off.

This is a game we sometimes played in the Old Life. I would put the kids in the car and say, "Pick a direction." We'd take turns picking left or right or straight until we were delightfully lost. It was escaping without really escaping.

The Boy and I stayed on known ground for a while until a right turn took us on a really long, curving road, and a left turn took us into a hospital parking lot. After that, we decided to just go straight.

We ended up in a neighborhood with big houses and landscaped yards. The Boy turned off the CD player and while I drove this way and that, we talked. Eventually, I found my way out of the fancy neighborhood and ended up on a street I recognized. Sorta. We passed an IHOP. The Boy and I looked at each other, and he said, "It's open twenty-four hours, Mom."

And so I made a U-turn. That's how we ended up at midnight, him with a basket of chicken strips, and me with a plate of crepes, playing a game of Spongebob Hangman on my Android phone.

The phone also has GPS, and I fired it up so we could get un-lost. It turned out that I had no idea where we were at all, so ... yay, GPS.

It's easy to make a writing analogy out of this adventure. I could say things like, "follow your instincts," and "don't be afraid to go down dark roads," and "sometimes meandering helps you find a better way."

All of those things are true, but I think, really, the connection between taking a spontaneous drive with my pre-teen son and how it might help me with writing is simply this: I can take any moment any time and make it different. In a book, I can rewrite a scene. And in my life, I can change "go away," to "come with me."

Writing or something like it

2010-07-25T15:34:00.003-05:00

I often get asked: "What is your writing routine like?" When I was living the Life That Mostly Sucked, I usually laughed and said, "What routine?"

Back then, I existed in crisis mode. There was always, always, ALWAYS a fire to put out, a decision to be made, a person to take care of. I lived in guilt and in fear and in panic. It's how I wrote, too. It's a wonder I got a paragraph finished, much less entire novels. I have written 200 pages in a week. I have written 60 pages in all-night word fest just to make the extension of an extension.

I was a panic writer because I was also a panic lifer.

In that last summer before my marriage officially ended (at least in my heart and in my head, it took three years to get the paperwork done), I would not accept the death throes of my love for a man who turned out to be an idea. It was a shocking realization that I had created my husband. Doing so made it easier to live with him, I guess. Or maybe not. Those last couple of years were strange and horrifying and several levels of crazy. Even after I asked him to go, and sent him off in our only vehicle, and was stuck in a house I could not afford, I was trapped in the crazy. We weren't together, but I was still taking care of him, I was still dealing with all the crap, and I was still feeling this side of insane.

Then one of my very dear friends told me, "You don't love him anymore, and it's okay." The second she said it, the second I repeated it aloud, a great weight was lifted off of me. I no longer loved my husband, the person he truly was, and the person I had imagined him to be. I didn't love him. I wasn't responsible for him.

And when my focus was finally, irrevocably taken off of him, and I looked around, and I looked at myself, I realized I was standing in the debris of a destroyed life, one I had participated in, and created. I built the bomb and pushed the button.

I tried to get my shit together, but I struggled with an ocean of guilt. I felt like I was swimming toward a shore I would never reach, waves of failure battering at me, pushing me further and further away from the Land of a Better Life. Then another dear friend of mine came along in a boat, yanked me out the water, and said, "Breathe, damn it." She took me to the coast, dumped my ass off, and said, "That's yours. Now go build something better."

Life, and writing, is really about connection. I spent a lot of time feeling disconnected because when I would tune in to the world, I would hurt. And I was so tired of hurting. But I also got tired of not feeling anything, either. Building something new was painful and difficult, but it was also awe-inspiring and exciting. I realized that if I just pushed through, and kept going, I would arrive on the other side. It was empowering. It is empowering.

The funny thing is, the more my life got on track, the more my writing got on track. I have a new answer to that oft-asked question: "What is your writing routine?"

I get up, I turn on my computer, I get the coffee going, and I walk my dogs. When I return, I look through my email, handle what's urgent, and then I open Word. And I write. Sometimes four hours, sometimes six, and some days, I'll write all day in-between walking dogs and feeding my son. It feels right. And good. Like connection. Like life.

Go ahead and laugh

2010-07-24T14:21:00.003-05:00

I woke up thinking of the word "chortle." No, I don't know why. The twilight between sleep and awake is where a lot of writer's work is done. And maybe, too, that's where best to commune with the Divine. And maybe even the Ordinary.

When this happens, a word or a phrase or dialogue popping out of the sleep-tainted mists of mind, I don't often understand its relevance. Sometimes, if I wait long enough, it becomes clear what I'm meant to do with the word (or the thought). This is the process of writing for me as well. I just sit down and write, and sometimes what I write seems strange and out of place until much later when something else happens, and suddenly I realize that nugget of weird makes total sense.

I trust my own process. In writing. Not always in life. I don't think, when it comes to life, I trust myself very much at all. I wear too many scars of bad decisions---and suffer too many fears that I will make more bad decisions. The worst part of this fear is that I don't realize "oops, that was stupid" until after I've stepped off the cliff. I need a better internal alarm. How does one upgrade instincts?

Anyway.

Other times, when words are embedded into my waking thoughts, there is no purpose that I can discern. I ruminate. I have a new word worry stone. And so it is, I think, with the word "chortle."

Last night, I did the usual go-to-bed rituals with my head full of worry and my stomach full of knots. I have not gotten paid. Payment arrives at the behest of people who have salaries: it's a long process that starts with my editor and ends with some accountant in New Jersey. My son is so used to the rhythm of this feast-or-famine lifestyle, he doesn't even argue when I say, "Nope. Haven't been paid." He, too, lives by the words, "When my check gets here..."

As much as consistency and routine offer opportunities to fail, they also offer comfort. I'm broke, but I can still brush my teeth, shower, climb into comfy clothes, and chose a book to read until I'm too sleepy to see the words. No one will take away my shelter or what food is left in the cupboards. Today, I can still breathe, still eat, still do some quality lolling.

The book I chose to read last night was EAT, PRAY, LOVE by Elizabeth Gilbert. A few days ago, I had started Laura Munson's THIS IS NOT THE STORY YOU THINK IT IS... but her prose is so pretty, so fluid, I found myself re-reading passages to get the meaning of the words. I was too distracted by the beauty to understand the purpose.

EAT, PRAY, LOVE is also beautiful and reflective, like reading a poem etched in a mirror. I see her words, and then I see myself behind them. Reading this book makes me feel better. And so, when I go to sleep, I'm not as worried, not as knotted, and when I wake up, I think, "Chortle."

Merriam Webster's Online Dictionary defines "chortle" as:
1 : to sing or chant exultantly
2 : to laugh or chuckle especially in satisfaction or exultation

The word's history, according to the Free Online Dictionary, is this: "'O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!' He chortled in his joy." Perhaps Lewis Carroll would chortle a bit himself to find that people are still using the word chortle, which he coined in THROUGH THE LOOKING-GLASS, published in 1872. In any case, Carroll had constructed his word well, combining the words chuckle and snort.

Last night, after reading the words of another struggling woman searching for her own truths, I thought: I don't want to feel stressed anymore. I want peace. I want joy. Mostly, I want money in the bank all the time. It's where security starts. It may be mundane, and not Ghandi-like, but that's what I need.

It wasn't exactly a question, or even a prayer, but I think that "chortle" was somehow an answer. I looked up quotations about laughter, like it's my new meditation, my soul homework, and this one resonated most:

"The excursion is the same when you go looking for your sorrow as when you go looking for your joy." ~Eudora Welty

Well, then.

Callooh! Callay!

And chortle.

Well, that didn't ... oh, look, something shiny!

2010-07-22T14:19:00.001-05:00

I forgot to blog yesterday. Actually, I did that Jedi mind trick thing where I remembered a couple of times, but I was doing something else when I remembered, and so I forgot again. Then I started watching TV, catching up on all the episodes I missed on shows I like (I don't need Tivo, I just hook up my computer to the TV and go to Hulu), and then I got tired and went to bed.

I really expected to last longer on the daily blog thing. At least a week, maybe even two. It reminds me a little of when I'm playing on a song on Rock Band. I start paying attention to the fact that I'm doing really well---not missing any notes at all. Then I feel this PRESSURE to not miss any notes because I'm getting 100%, baby ... until I miss ONE note. Then weirdly, I feel better. Because I don't have worry about getting it perfect.

I still plan to blog every day, except when I forget, of course, but I don't have to worry about getting it perfect.

The same could be said for writing. There is no perfect. There's "as good as you can possibly get it right now." I've never really had a problem letting go of a manuscript. There are too many stories to tell, and if I'm spending a gabillion hours worrying about every sentence in one book, I can't write the next one. The best writing advice I ever received was from a college professor. She told me: Never fall in love with your words.

I learned that being published means my book becomes a group project. I don't always have control over it. Sometimes, I have to compromise. Sometimes, I have to let go of a scene, an idea, a plot line, a character, and so forth. Sometimes, I have to accept that the book I want to write is not the book the publisher wants to buy. But I'm a working writer, so I move on, move forward, and try again.

That's all we can do. In writing. In blogging. And in life.

Striking my word fancy

2010-07-20T17:20:00.003-05:00

Last night, I hooked up to my Netflix account and watched the first few second- season episodes of Sanctuary, which is an original SyFy Channel series. It's kinda cheesy, but also awesome. I like the premise and the characters, so I stick around.

There is a point where Magnus and Druitt argue about the changed nature of their daughter, and Druitt says, "What's bred in the bone will come out in the flesh."

I was instantly enamored. I'd never heard this phrase, and I kinda zoned out for a minute while I thought about it. This happens every so often. I'll overhear a stranger's conversation (oh yeah, I eavesdrop all the time, all writers do ... um, don't they?), or read a particular phrase in a book, or even catch something clever my son says (it happens more often than you may think) ... and I'm just enraptured. Some words are like worry stones. I go back to them time and time again because I like them, because I like holding them and thinking about them and reshaping them. I love turning a noun into verb. I also love getting out the hyphen and using it to connect two words, especially if they don't really belong together---a shotgun wedding (and I am the one holding the shotgun and performing the ceremony).

What's bred in the bone will come out in the flesh.

I Googled (Look! A trademarked word, a noun no less, that has become a verb.) the phrase and found out that the earliest reference was from a Latin term: "Osse radicatum raro de carne recedit." And that means: That which is rooted in the bone rarely comes out from the flesh.

I also found this quotation from Morte d'Arthur: "Sir Launcelot smyled and seyde, 'Harde hit ys to take oute off the fleysshe that ys bredde in the bone.'" (Ah, yes, I remember well the History of the English Language college course I took for my long abandoned bachelor's degree. That was a doozy, people.)

I go off on word hunts all the time. In fact, I bought a subscription to the Thinkmap Visual Thesaurus, which offers a unique way to get synonyms(or antonyms for that matter). It's free to try out, and it's fairly inexpensive. It's also a little too much fun, but then again I'm easily distracted.

Anyway.

Chewing over this particular phrase isn't just about word love. It's about meaning. It's about insta-theme. How many stories can flower from that seed? A lot. Many already written.

Right now, I'm content to ruminate about its meaning, the order of its words, and how I could use it or change it to tell a new tale. And soon, I'm sure, I will take whatever I come up with and ask that age-old writer's question, "What if..."

And so I am waiting

2010-07-19T16:52:00.005-05:00

Being a writer means you do a lot of waiting. Every writer waits. Published or unpublished, waiting is waiting. Waiting for proposal approvals, waiting for revision letters, waiting for copy edits, waiting for cover art, waiting for paychecks. (Most especially waiting for paychecks.)

"Wait" is an active verb. But it doesn't feel active. It feels stagnant. Like doing nothing. Don't get me wrong. I'm a big fan of doing nothing. I also believe everyone should loll. Lolling is an underrated activity.

But there are things you can't wait for ... like inspiration or a visit from the muse. Waiting can easily turn into procrastinating. Procrastinate long enough, and sometimes the issue you're avoiding goes away, loses its ferocity, its meaning. I know. I'm procrastination royalty. Or I was. Somewhere in the struggle to find stability and embrace routine, my fear of failure wrapped around the idea that if I do not address issues sooner rather than later (or never) I will backslide into The Life That Thoroughly Sucked.

I cannot go back there. Nope. If I do, all that feels so hard won now will be lost. I may give up. And I never want to give up. But I know, oh, do I KNOW, what it's like to be drowning in the murk of the soul---all the pain and darkness and ugly, not just what was around me, but what was, or still is, inside me. I am capable of making bad decisions. Of hurting people I love. Of doing things that are so, so wrong for me because I am afraid, because I want others to be happy or, if I'm honest, just not to be angry.

Yes, that's my fear whispering, whispering. Fear sucks. But it certainly motivates. I'm still shaking off the Old Life Ick. It's clingy, but I'm persistent. And there is something new inside me, something that is solid, like stone, like steel. It's not new in the sense that I added it to the core of who I am. It's new in the sense that I uncovered it---already there and waiting, like hidden treasure. Like a box I'd buried in the yard as a child and rediscovered as an adult.

Waiting.

Fear is impatient. It tends to go away when I stop, breathe, and think. Fear cannot exist in a vacuum. It doesn't like doing nothing, or lolling. It doesn't like to wait.

Neither do I, but I'm better at it. I'm waiting right now for approval for the proposal of NEVER SAY NEVER, and I'm in the early stages of waiting for revisions on MUST LOVE LYCANS. And as always, I'm waiting to get paid.

I want to write, so I am. I'm also doing a lot of staying up late and watching television and reading and lolling. I'm happy.

And so, I am waiting. Actively.

In which I give myself a challenge to write a blog every day

2010-07-18T18:25:00.001-05:00

Me and consistency have never really been friends. I'm kinda afraid of it. I learned very early that expectations = disappointment. Hey, I can single-mindedly pursue a goal, and should anyone tell me I can't do something, well ... that's gas in the engine. Vroom. Vroom. Watch me.

However, committing to doing a single thing every day (or once a week or hell, once a month) makes my stomach hurt. I feel this little knot of worry form inside my chest, and nestled within it is the seed of failure. Failure, which inevitably blooms, and crowds out my lungs, and makes me dizzy and light-headed and I CAN'T BREATHE. Damn you, consistency. Routine. Sameness.

I fear I will fail. But ... fear = failure, doesn't it?

At least once a week, I think about moving to Ireland. Or Denmark. Or Italy. I have spent hours dreaming about where I would live and what I would do and who I would meet. I've gone online and looked up all kinds of information about housing, rules for living abroad, schools, and tax liabilities. Partly, I think about moving somewhere else because stability is all around me ... it is me, and I'm still not used to it. I want to throw everything and everyone I love into an RV and drive and drive and drive.

But I don't run away anymore. I refuse.

One of my favorite quotes is by Robert Louis Stevenson: "You cannot run away from weakness; you must some time fight it out or perish; and if that be so, why not now, and where you stand?"

So, I stand. Sometimes with knees quivering and tears falling, but I stand all the same.

The other part, of course, is that I like to dream. I think about my life, my writing, my children, my apartment, my animals ... about everything. In my mind, I re-arrange mental furniture. I chuck things out the door, and bring things in. I dream every day, sitting in my chair or lolling too long in bed, and think about all things I can do. It doesn't matter if I actually do them, not really. It's the act of dreaming that is wondrous. It's why I write. To dream with words.

I'm committing to writing a blog every day about ... well, writing. And how it intersects with my life, or really, how it is my life. Writing is like breathing, and therefore, it is also consistency.

Fear be damned.