Writing Support Groups

Hi. I'm Michelle, and I'm a writer.

It's been five years since I started writing novels, and only a year since I confessed to my friends and family about it. I was, I don't know, worried what they'd think of me if they knew I was a writer. They'd expect me to become a best-seller immediately. Or maybe they'd hate what I wrote.

So, for a long time I kept it secret, writing in my bedroom with the door closed, never mentioning to anyone that I was clandestinely writing.

And then I stumbled upon a website for writers. Authonomy, it's called, and I found a virtual connection with hundreds, even thousands of people in the same situation I was in. They understood about my writing habit, and they even helped me become a better writer. There are plenty of writing support groups like that, both online and in local groups where people meet up and read each others' work.

After participating on Authonomy for a few months, it felt almost normal to be a writer. There were so many people doing it, I wasn't alone anymore. I established a connection with other writers who understood me and my struggles to write. Then I got up the courage to tell everyone that I was a writer. It was such a relief not to hide it, not to be worried that someone would find out.

Since then, I've finished writing my first book and have even completed another book. It's become part of who I am, and I'm not ashamed of it anymore. Plus, I've made friends with other writers who are amazing people and whose friendship I truly cherish, even if we've never met in person. They offer me support whenever I need it, even if it doesn't deal with writing.

So to all of you listening, I applaud you for taking the first step to coming out about your writing habit. Take the next step and connect with other writers and see how much more enriched your writing and your life will be.

Hare-brained ideas

I have a lot of them. Honestly. But sometimes these ideas turn out to be good in the end. Like when I decided one day that I wanted to study abroad in England. It was one of the most wonderful experiences I've ever had.

So my latest hare-brained idea involves going back to school. I've sworn I wouldn't do that, but then things changed in my mind. I'm actually the kind of person who enjoys the classroom atmosphere. Hate the homework and grades, but I love being in a place where intelligent debate happens. And I love learning new things more than anything.

It was a dream I had the other night, though, that kicked this into gear. Strange, I know, but maybe my subconscious was trying to tell me something. I dreamed I was moving away to go back to school for my masters. Not too complicated, but when I woke up, I instantly decided to look into going back to school for a graduate degree in writing.

I looked into it, and the best solution for me is the low-residency MFA programs that many universities offer. Spend ten days every six months in intensive writing classes, and then the rest of the time you write at home while still working at your day job. And the program I really like is in beautiful Oregon. What could be better?

Now, an MFA is probably not for everyone. I've heard some people tell of it ruining a writer's creativity. But for me, I really think it could focus my writing efforts and take my storytelling to the next level. Besides, having a Masters opens up a lot of doors.

Maybe my hare-brained idea isn't so hare-brained after all.

Chapter next

For the past few days I've been packing everything I own into boxes, taping them, and labeling the contents of my life with a black sharpie. And it makes me feel as the life I've known until now is about to change.

This chapter of my life is closing, but I wonder, how will the next continue the story? Will it be a continuation of the same: work, writing, rinse, repeat. Or will the next chapter introduce a mysterious stranger into my life? How about a message in a bottle (or from an owl). I could do with an inheritance or the arrival of a love interest.

It reminds me of one of my favorite movies, Stranger than Fiction. Is my story a comedy or a tragedy? Romance or chic lit? Literary or genre? (And yes, I'm glad I'm not a golem.)

I'm not sure. I haven't reached my denouement, so it really could be anything. But while this chapter ends, with it comes both sorrow and excitement. I will miss those who've touched my life to this point but welcome new aspects to my life that I have, as yet, not known.

This is far from the end of the story, but I at least hope this next chapter adds excitement and intrigue. I could use some.

Finding my way

Okay, I'll admit it. I'm a follower. I see something I like, and then I try to copy it. Twittering, for instance. There are several people I really admire on there, and I'd love to emulate their humor, spontaneity, and excellence. And then there's this blog. I started it for a number of reasons, a big one to increase my profile as a writer and editor. But the problem is that I've been inconsistent.

So I realized the other day that if I want to accomplish a goal, I actually have to set one. Duh. And then I have to plan out how I'm to go about doing so. These are simple things, but sometimes I look for the complicated and the simple eludes me.

Instead of trying to copy what others have done before, or even to emulate them, I'm going to be myself. I'm going to set some goals, put my thoughts into coherent plans and then accomplish those plans using my intelligence and craft—not anyone else's.

I'm not saying it's wrong to get ideas from what someone else is doing, but really, I need to take an idea and make it my own, not a cheap imitation of someone else's brilliance.

That's what I'm going to do, and I hope you enjoy the efforts.

But now I'm going to relate this to writing. As in just about everything in life, the copycats are never as good as the original. The first. The only one people really think about. (There are obviously exceptions, but we're not dealing with those today.)

Think Harry Potter and all the knockoffs that tried so hard to capture the magic that J.K. Rowling created. They couldn't do it.

Don't think that success will come as a writer by copying the big trend. Be original. Be your self. That's where true success comes. Trust your instincts and mold all of your outside influences into something truly you.

Timing

So, it seems another book project has come to steal the place of another. Jessamine did that a few months ago, but she was written in three weeks, so it wasn't too much of an imposition. This time, it's a new book I'm calling Indomitable. I've already gotten 4,000+ words done in two days, which I think is rather good.

The thing is, writing is really about timing. It has to be the right time to write a certain book. I think a lot of cases of writer's block come because a project needs to sit a bit longer and percolate in your brain just a little while longer.

Yes, there are times to force yourself to write a book and just get the blasted thing done. But then there are those times where, if you haven't written a thing in weeks, maybe it's time to work on something else that sparks your interest. Writing isn't really about forcing the words to come. More, it's about accepting them when they're ready.

So Fractured will have to sit for a time until she's ready to speak to me more. In the meantime, I'm hoping to whip out another story a la Jessamine. I do have to say, writing fantasy teen romance books is just a lot of fun.

STRESS!

Okay, I should probably be calm, but I'm really starting to stress right now.

For several months we've known that two of my roommates are moving out. We've been looking for women who would be interested in moving in, but it's never as easy as I hope it will be. Multiple women have come by, looking at the place, but no one has decided to move in.

So the one roommate who is staying asked me today if I had any backup plans. I don't and have just been focusing my efforts on finding two girls to fill the emptying spots. Well, she does, and one of those is to move in with the two girls who are moving out. I didn't realize at the time why that upset me, but it feels like she's planning to abandon ship if things don't work out in the next few weeks. She said she didn't want to leave me in a lurch, but honestly, just her thinking about it already is.

I feel stuck, not knowing what to do. I've been hoping to stick with the status quo lately, not considering other options. But I guess I really should. And it makes me feel uncomfortable because I've had a nice time here in this house, in this situation. I've been fine how I am. I hate it when I'm thrust into unknown situations and when I'm not sure what is going to happen.

I should probably look at it as a chance for growth and new opportunities, but right now I'm just stressing. What am I going to do? Ack.

Focus . . . focus

I sometimes have to tell myself that, and frequently. Why? Because I get easily distracted.

Ooh! Shiny object!

So what were we talking about? Oh, yeah. Focus, as in, I need to focus my energies and not go beating about trying to do everything at once.

My problem? I have so many interests and so many ideas buzzing around my head. By the time one gets planted in there, I have another even shinier idea that comes along, supplanting the first.

Lately, though, I've been learning a little about focusing my energies. That's been an essential topic for me these past few weeks. I have three great projects I'm in the middle of right now, but I had to chose the one I find most pertinent to complete. I'll finish this one, and then move onto another. Simple? Not always, but it works for me.

I've also learned the importance of setting goals to help in accomplishing that task so I don't burn out too quickly before the task is completed. My latest goal? Completing Fractured by the time my next writer's conference happens in late August. (And if you're in the Utah area, you can find the deets here.)

So tell me, how do you focus your writing?

Feeling funky

I've been feeling funky lately, as in, I've been in a major funk for the past few weeks/months/years. I really feel like I'm starting to pull out of it now. Thanks goodness.

I won't elaborate more at the moment, but let me just say it'll be nice not to dread waking up in the morning because I have to work/clean/fulfill everyone's expectations, including my own.

That's all.

Organizational skillz

I got tired of staring at endless piles of manuscripts at home, trying to find which notebook I wrote what story in. So this weekend I went on an organizing spree and bought several items to make my writing life easier. And who can say no to purple?

Hint of the day

Don't let me get near a computer when I'm hopped up on cough syrup. Bad things happen!

My own weakness

In my last blog post, I discussed weaknesses in characters and how important it is to have them. Well, I have them too, and it's not as fun having them as writing them for another character. My weakness? Impatience.

I want everything now and don't want to put in the requisite time and effort to accomplish those tasks. I want things to come easily.

The reason I bring this up is because a good friend taught me this lesson this morning. She didn't realize she was doing it, but I appreciate her teaching it to me all the same.

I've written two books now. The first one I had queried and gotten some positive feedback, but people weren't loving the book enough. A friend just read the whole thing and gave me her comments. The important thing is that she did it in a loving, caring way.

Now I'm going back through the book with her comments in mind, and I see exactly what she means. And I'm also realizing that my impatience has hindered me, yet again.

Agents and editors love to give the advice to let a book sit for a few months, and then go back to it before even thinking of querying agents with it. Well, I was impatient and didn't do that. I haven't completely shot myself in the foot because of this, but it's come pretty close.

I wanted to be the exception, the person who could write a book in a few weeks, edit in a few more, and then get an agent very quickly soon after. To be honest, I'm not at that point yet. I'm still learning, and that's okay.

So the plan right now is to go back and fix book one (Surviving Eden) while putting book two (Jessamine) in the freezer for a bit.

I know Surviving Eden isn't the book that's going to get me an agent, but I need to learn the process of revising and editing my own work if I'm to do an even better job of it the second time around.

I'm stubborn, and so some lessons have to come the hard way. The most important ones, really. Take it from me, learn the easy way. It's much better for the sanity.

Free

There's something spectacular about Independence Day. When I was little, I used to take the sawdust from those little packets of poppers, as we called them, and pretend it was fairy dust. My cousins and I would run through the park sprinkling fairy dust on each other.

But then the fireworks would start up, and we would lie on the grass and Ooh! and Aah! with each explosion of color. It was magical.

Now that I'm older, there's something still inherently magical about the Fourth of July. Not the same type of magic as when I was a child. This time it's the magic of what the holiday stands for that gives me tingles.

Just the other day as I was lying down, sick, I heard the song Proud to Be an American come on the radio, and I felt that magic. There's something inherently beautiful in the freedoms we have as Americans, in the pride we hold as a nation. In God We Trust.

Now those tingles stem from the knowledge that I am an American and I am free. I'm blessed to live in such a glorious nation, and I'm proud of the efforts we make to ensure freedoms for the rest of the world.

I am proud to be an American, and I hope for those of you who are American feel some of that pride. Though we have made mistakes, be glad to know we live in a nation that values freedom.

So as you participate in parades and fireworks and family barbecues, remember why we have this holiday. Keep the magic of this holiday alive in your own heart. I know I will.

Flawed

Being sick with the swine flu this week has given me extra time for movie watching, something I haven't taken the time to do in awhile with work and writing.

While I enjoy movies for the sake of watching, my analytical brain was on overdrive for some reason and I started noticing trends and patterns in some of the most popular movies and stories. Then I wondered why that was.

Just this afternoon, Superman was saving the world again. Superman is . . . well, he's not human, he's nearly perfect physically, and yet . . . yet he's not perfect. He's flawed. Not as a character, mind you, but as an individual. For a character, he's exactly what one wants and needs. Someone strong, good looking, a good person trying to right the world's wrongs. But he is flawed.

Around Lois, he's a complete dork, at least in the persona of Clark Kent. He acts utterly human and makes the same mistakes that people have made for centuries when dealing with members of the opposite sex. And then there's that whole kryptonite thing. A little stone can debilitate a super-human power and kill a superman.

I'm coming to see that it is the flaws and not necessarily the strengths that make a character, well, strong in a story. Take, for instance, Luke Skywalker. (As you're probably noting, I was really having a movie marathon week.) He is a headstrong kid who wants to save the world. And yet for all his youthful idealism, he has the same weakness as his father—hate. It is what nearly undoes him, and yet that tension, that internal conflict is what makes the story interesting and relatable.

People want to see weakness in their favorite characters because it makes them human and makes them like us. It's an unconscious liking, but it has an effect on the way we tell stories.

Name for me a character from a truly popular movie who doesn't have flaws. Okay, go. Really, start naming them. Do you have one yet? No?

There have been stories with characters who are practically perfect in every way, but it's hard to name one from a popular book or movie. It's because those characters aren't like the rest of humanity—frail and flawed. People don't want to relate to someone who is too perfect. First, it's unrealistic, but second, it's just boring. Even Achilles had his heel.

As readers and viewers, we want to see someone who is flawed overcome their weakness because that means that we, as flawed individuals can overcome our weaknesses too.

It's making me wonder if my characters are weak enough to be strong. How about yours? Are you making them too perfect and therefore unrelatable?

This little piggy got sick

With the swine flu. Grr. Why can't those little piggies keep it to themselves?

So I may be back later today to post on some random topic just because I'm really bored. But for now, this little piggy is off to take a nap.

Obsessed

Is it wrong to want something so bad that it hurts when you don't have it? I wonder, because popular wisdom tells you to be driven, to seek for what you want. Okay, check. Got that.

But then it is also important to be zen, to let life float by you like a lazy stream, dipping your toes in but never getting fully wet. Alrighty. I can do that. Zen, peaceful, happy, asleeeeeep . . .

For me, I can't seem to have both at the same time. I'm a driven person. I'm also obsessive. I tend to want something and then put my whole force behind it until I either achieve it, burn myself out, or find something else I'd rather obsess about. And I'm really not kidding when I say that.

No medium ground here. Nosiree.

So where does that leave me, then? Driven, yes. Peaceful, sometimes (at least when "finding peace" is my obsession du jour). Happy, frequently. Unfulfilled, often.

The problem with being driven is that sometimes goals take longer to achieve than my current store of energy. Take, for example, my current obsession: writing books and getting them published.

So, I've written two books so far and have starts for twelve others. And no, I'm not kidding. I have the files on my computer ready for me to work on them. I plan to finish all of them at some point in my life, and that doesn't include new ideas that keep popping into my head even though I'm already busy enough with the ones I have. Ugh!

That leaves me with a whole lotta work and not nearly enough time to do it all in, especially when we factor in time to rewrite, edit, and revise. Plus the wonderful time spent querying and being rejected.

Sigh. This would probably be why I'm still single. I really don't have enough time to deal with a man and then work on my obsession. For the moment, I chose my obsession. But that's not to say that a man couldn't become an obsession later. It's happened before; I won't rule it out.

So the point of this ramble is, really, there's no point. I just needed to ramble a bit tonight. My obsession has worn me out for the evening, so I must to bed before exhaustion sets in. I hate it when I fall asleep in my regular clothes. Jeans just aren't very comfy.

Back in the saddle again . . .

Yes, I do think of blog titles in song. It's often the first thing that comes to me.

Anyway, this week has been momentous (for me at least) in that I've decided my book is about as ready as I can get it. This means QUERYING! Yep, I've started again, and it's such an exciting feeling. Even those first few rejections have a power to them, knowing that I'm out there doing what I need to be doing.

I won't bore you with query stats this time around, but just know that I'm busy doing everything I can to get Jessamine published. And the reason for that, my friends, can be found in last week's post. I want to get Jessamine published so she can be read, so the story can really come to life. I love it to much to let it sit in a box.

So watch out world, I'm coming!

Creative Reading 201

Author Tracy Hickman (best known for the Dragon Lance books) gave a speech tonight as part of the BYU writers conference I've been attending this week. His words struck me so powerfully that I want to share the message with you as well as my thoughts on what this means for me and my writing.

Creative Reading 201:
An exploration of the reader as the author's partner in creation.

Story=meaning

No book lives until it is read. The reader partners in the experience in creating the written word. How that works is that the writer places symbols on a piece of paper, and the reader later comes along and interprets those symbols and make them come to life.

The meaningful experience in all literature takes place in the white space between the words. Minds connect the dots and fill in the blanks. It is what the reader interprets the words to mean, how they are personal, that creates a meaningful experience.

Literature is an art form where the final performance takes place while the original artist is not present. He cited an example from Stephen King's book On Writing. The experience of reading is like time travel back to when the author sat down at his desk and wrote it. They are experiencing the same things in one moment, even though those moments may be separated by years from when the author first wrote the book.

*It does not matter if you are published. Anyone can be published by ordering a copy of their book off Lulu. What matters is that you are read. It matters that your words come to life. Your words are dead until they are picked up by someone else.

We all read the same words, but what we bring to the story from our own experience makes it unique. It is the reader not the writer who creates the meaningful experience of the written word.

The only constant in the world is change. We're always moving forward, backward, or staying stagnant, but we are always moving in a direction. If we aren't moving forward, we are regressing and losing some of the knowledge we had. What we experience while reading a book cannot but help us change.

*Creation is more than knowing. It's doing something with what you know to change the world.

Tracy then shared a story about a soldier in Afghanistan who had read the Dragon Lance books and loved them. He took them with him as he was stationed so far from home. One day while on duty, he was shot in the back. The young soldier thought in that instant of what one character in the books would have done and he decided to act accordingly. Standing up even though his back was shattered, he warned his comrades and saved twelve lives that day.

I can't imagine that I'll ever have such a dramatic experience, but it still struck me that writing and books and stories can be so powerful when you touch a reader's life with your words.

Now for what this means to me. Today I was having a little mini crisis with my writing. Even though I've had close to 75 glowing comments from people who've read the first few chapters and loved the voice, and even though I've had two people read the whole thing and tell me they absolutely loved it, I started to doubt myself. I won't go into the reasons why, but let's just say I was feeling really down about my ability to write a book that I can actually get published.

And then I sat down to listen to Tracy speak, and I realized how selfish I was being. I was thinking of myself as the writer and not thinking of the reader. All I have to do is my very best with this book, and then I hand it over to the reader who will take that and create. There is something so incredibly powerful about that.

Really, that's why I started writing. I wanted to make a difference in people's lives—even if for just one person. I wanted to touch them, however briefly. But in all the hustle and bustle of "getting published" I forgot that.

So I am incredibly grateful for the lesson I learned tonight: I'm not in this by myself. It's a partnership I have with the readers. It doesn't matter if only two people ever read my whole book as long as it affects them, even if only for the entertainment value.

I don't know that I'll ever affect anyone's life so powerfully that they chose to save others' lives at risk to their own, but I hope that someone somewhere is better because of reading something that I write.

Graduating

Up late tonight for reasons I won't go into (other than to say my mouth loves Indian food. Other parts of me . . . not so much). Anyway, while I'm sitting here wide awake, I was thinking about the first day of my writers conference. And the biggest feeling I have from it is that I've graduated.

Not in the traditional sense with a cap and gown, but more that I've moved on from the beginning stages of being a writer. A year ago, I'd never been to a conference and didn't know much about finding an agent or even how to edit my book, really. However, this has been an intensive year for me in many ways. I've put myself through my own writing boot camp.

It started with a conference last August put on by author Shannon Hale, and it really opened my eyes to what it meant being a writer. Before that, I'd been working on my book for nearly four years and was only halfway done. After getting a taste of the writing life, though, I was addicted. I wanted to know more and do more.

Within a month I found out about Authonomy, a writing peer review site (among other things). I made some wonderful friends and received invaluable feedback on my first manuscript. That gave me the impetus to finish the dang book so I could go on to editing the thing.

Then came another writers conference in November, this time with SCBWI, and this time also involving agents and editors from New York. I got some one-on-one time with an agent and received more valuable feedback.

Soon after I finished several rounds of edits on my ms and began querying. I went through another boot camp of sorts learning about agents and the querying process. I should say I was rather successful for a first book that took four years to write considering I'm still waiting to hear back from four agents who've requested the manuscript.

And now, six months later, I've written another book, this one in three weeks. Through the laborious process of writing that initiall took me four years, I learned some incredible lessons about how to write. Or, more importantly, how I write.

So, that brings me back to the writers conference today. As I sat there listening to the presenters going over information I'd learned nine months ago, and people asking the editors questions I knew all the answers to, I realized I've graduated from the stage of beginning writer. Oh, there are still plenty of things I've yet to learn, but I really feel that I've gained enough experience that I can't call myself a beginning writer. I'm moving well onto intermediate, even possibly toward advanced.

The moral of this story: writing and editing are about the doing. As Martha Mahalick, editor at Greenwillow, said today, editing is something you learn by experience. You gain knowledge by working with a mentor who shows you the ropes and guides you as you move along. Writing is exactly the same. First you have to write, and then you can get needed feedback on your writing. But you will never learn unless you start doing.

So writers, get out there. Learn by experience and from the experiences of others. Keep moving forward and someday you'll get to the point where you feel like you've graduated from being one tinkering with writing to being a real writer. And that is a wonderful realization.

Remarkably Jane

I've decided to add another facet to my blogging about writing, publishing, and all that jazz. Book reviews. You heard me right. In between all the other book talk, we might as well discuss some of the great books that are coming out as well as some overlooked gems.

Tonight, though, there is also a book giveaway! I have a signed copy of the book, which I will even have personalized for you since I know where to find the author. So, without further delay, Remarkably Jane: Notable Quotations on Jane Austen by Jennifer Adams.

Let's start with a quote, since the book is full of them.

"What is all this about Jane Austen? What is there in her? What is it all about?"—Joseph Conrad, 1901, novelist

What is it, then? I know I'm addicted to Jane's prose. There's something universal about her characters that sucks me into the story. Funny, sad, heartening, romantic, and just plain grand. I love the way she makes me believe in love and happy endings, even if she never found her own.

"Austen tells us how much we have to suffer in order to find real love and truth as well as the pain of growing up. These conflicts in one way or another determine our lives."—Ang Lee, director of 1995 version of Sense and Sensibility

Eek. I don't like suffering, but really, what is love but pain? Enough about me, though. What does the acknowledged Jane-ite have to say?

"To those of us who love Jane Austen," Jennifer writes, "she is like the brightness of burnished silver. Something lovely, with sparkle, that makes our world more beautiful."

Ah, now that's a lovely image. The book is full of them, as well as interesting tidbits that others have said about Jane. From writers to actors to those who adore Jane—or absolutely hate her—this book collects their thoughts on one of the great English novelists.

And hate—believe it or not—some did.

Infamous curmudgeon Mark Twain said, "Every time I read Pride and Prejudice I want to dig her up and hit her over the skull with her own shin-bone."

That quote makes me wonder, though, why he reads it again if he didn't like it the first time. For you, though I will leave you with these thoughts and a prize. To the person who leaves the best quote about Jane Austen in the comments, I'll send you a personalized copy of this beautiful book. And I've convinced the author to judge your entries. Oh, and I should say that the contest will end Saturday at midnight. (Whichever midnight you want.)

My writing place

Isn't it perfect?

Get ’er done

Epiphany: Last night I realized that I'm spinning my wheels a bit trying to write the sequel when I should be polishing up the first book so I can start querying.

What this means: It's back to the grind for me, spending every free moment I have working on revising and rewriting my book. If I push myself a bit, I can get the first revision done in a few weeks, and then spend time fine-tuning from there. After revising the first four chapter last night, I realized that what I've got is pretty good, in that I need to fill in places, but it won't take as long as I'd imagined earlier.

That said, you can expect me to return to my cave for the next few months, emerging for social interaction on occasion but more or less working steadfastly on achieving my dream.

Wish me luck! Or, maybe it would be better if you wished me stamina instead.

(Im)patience

I sometimes wonder why I gave up the fast-paced world of journalism for the publishing industry. That thought usually only lasts for a few seconds because I got very burnt out of doing things so quickly. But there was one aspect I loved of writing stories for the newspaper: you got it written in a matter of hours and your readership had it in their hands the next day.

Books, though. Oh, books. They are the love of my life, but they take so long to produce.When I was a child, and even a teen (really up until I started writing my first book in college), I never thought I'd have the patience and stamina to write a full-length book. Even a short 200-page one. Hah. I've written about 300 pages in one book, 200 in another, and am still going on others.

Gladly, I proved myself wrong, but the base worry there wasn't that I couldn't do it. It was that I wouldn't want to do it repeatedly. I thought poems, short stories, newspaper articles were the thing because I could see the accomplishment almost immediately.

So why would this be a problem? Because every time I walk into a bookstore, I pine, I crave to see my books on the shelf. No, that isn't strong enough to express what I feel. In Spanish there's a phrase—tengo ganas—almost like I need to see my book on the shelf. The reason? To see something that I've accomplished, something tangible, something I can hold. For all the hours I've spent thinking about my characters, writing and rewriting and editing, I want something to show for it.

Now, I know it's not going to kill me to wait for publication of my books. I'll keep moving forward and working on my latest project. But if you tell me that it's going to take 3 long years at the soonest before I see one of my books in print, then I may very well have to strangle you. And I would probably give up.

Here's the thing, though. Even though agents, editors, other writers, and just about everyone else will tell you that it will probably take a long time before I get my lucky break, in my heart I don't believe them. I really think I will be published sooner rather than later. And that—that—is what keeps me going. If I didn't feel that way, if I knew this was going to be a long, laborious process before I saw some fruits of my labors, I probably wouldn't do it.

So if you think you need to tell me that it's going to take 5 years before I ever get an agent, I'm going to politely ignore you and believe what I want. It's the only way I'll keep myself going, and with my spirits up.

It will happen for me, and soon. I believe it, and so it must be true.

Hey baby, can I have your ISBNs . . .

Yesterday was too much fun, owing to a particular meme on Twitter. Wait for it . . . wait for it . . . #publishingpickupline! Yes, you guessed it. Book nerds and people working in the industry got together and created some of the funniest pick up lines this side of distribution.

I'm not sure how it started, but the results are so hilarious, I had to capture the best of them here for your perusing pleasure. Some of them you have to know about the publishing process (and the terms used) to understand them. If they're really hard to understand, leave a comment and I'll interpret for you.

I tried to weed out the really dirty ones, so these are all fairly clean, and most of them had me laughing hard. So enjoy, and maybe add your own at the end. Though remember, we keep a fairly clean blog here.

I'll start off with my own offering: I wanna see my name written on your spine.

adamgaumont I want you blad

jo_words Five minutes with me and you'll be sans serif!

WheatmarkSusan I'm not just another pretty typeface. Take me home and try me in layout.

corpuslibris I'd thumb your index any day.

adamgaumont Once you see my em-dash, you'll never go back to hyphens.

@janinelaporte I'd like to deckle your edges.

kaiwan I know I shouldn't judge by the covers, but baby I like what I see.

NickDuring With a backlist like that it's going to take a long time to make up your advance

EGDeedy "how about you get comfortable and slip out of those indies..."

bsandusky You had me at "Winner of the National Book Award".

AnnKingman Wow, check out the blurbs on that one!

lauramazer i'm dying to shelve you in current affairs.

lauramazer with case specs like that, you should be shelved in erotica

s_m_bailey wanna work my text block ragged?

WorkmanPub You'd look good in the chains, but even better in bricks and mortar

WorkmanPub Don't worry, the children are in a different catalog.

@hkdimon: What's a nice girl like you doing with a cover like that?

KatMeyer oh baby, that is one well-built author platform!

@NickDuring: Baby what's your discount? I want to order in bulk

NickDuring I saw you in the catalog and had to pick you up

@bookoven: i'm feeling naughty: how bout you split your infinitives, and i'll end this on a preposition.

bostonbookgirl I can help you extend your deadline.

bostonbookgirl I'd swap spot gloss with you any day.

bsandusky Didn't I see you at the top of the NYT Bestseller list?

bsandusky I don't care what anyone says, you'll always be leather-bound, hand-sewn in my mind.

AnnKingman C'mon, give me a little peek under your french flaps ...

bostonbookgirl Wanna proof my bluelines, Sweet Cheeks?

AnnKingman Let's go in the back room and strip off our covers

RandomHouseCA You must have just come from the printer cause you are hot!

kalenski It's embargoed, but I'll let you take a peek.

Snow

Well, in another attempt to write out some frustrations, I stumbled upon an ambitious project. It will take quite some thought and effort to get it right, but it has promise.

I've got too many of these stories stacking up in my brain, though, all of them clamoring for my attention. One at a time, my dears. You'll all have your chance.

Below is what I've written so far, and the first person who can tell me where this is going wins a virtual cookie. (But please remember, it's a very rough draft.)

Snow

Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub.

She could feel it pumping, beneath her skin, beneath her breast.

Lub dub. Lub dub.

Her heart squeezed and contracted, sending blood through her veins and out onto the icy pavement beneath her. She was surrounded by the red aura of her own blood.

Lub dub.

The car that had backed over her was long gone. When would they come? Sirens sounded in the distance, and she knew there wouldn’t be time for her. But for the child. Her child.

Lub . . .

———

Heather Winslow was born precisely at midnight, taken from her mother’s womb though the woman who had incubated her now lay cold in the morgue. Grieving over a dead wife, John barely noticed the utter paleness of the newborn’s skin and the black mat of hair on her head. But he did see that the ruby lips of the babe looked as though tainted by blood.

He called her Heather, after her mother. But no one called her that. She was always known as Snow.

———

(I'm also thinking that Snow will be joined by a few friends, among them Rorie, Ellie, Essa, and Zelle. Solve those riddles if you can. And as has been the case of late, their stories are rather dark.)

Tell me your story, Christine

There's a story lurking about my brain. I was driving home tonight from a party, alone, darkness all around. I've long thought one of the scariest things that could ever happen would be to sit in the driver's seat of your car and have a hand grab you from behind. I've spent many a breathless moment checking the back of the car before turning it on. Call me a hypochondriac, but it scares me.

As I checked the back seat tonight, something was there, in the shadows waiting for my tired brain to notice. The first inklings of a story, wanting to come out of hiding. Problem is, it's still there, on the edges of my consciousness, not yet ready to form into coherent thoughts.

In this story, the girl, her name is Christine. I heard a song on the radio about a Christine as I pulled onto my street. It fit. That's her name. But the man in the back seat, him I'm not too sure about. I don't think he's human—at least not completely. I don't think he's all bad, either. He calls her name, softly, gently, to catch her attention as he wraps his hand around her mouth. She must be silent, but I'm not sure why. Who is after her? This man wants to help, to stop something, but that something . . . is . . . what?

Therein is the problem. I know her. She's a poor college student, frustrated after a day waitressing and ready to cry herself to sleep. Only a few more months in school and she'll be done, ready to find a real job with real money and respect. But this man, this thing in her backseat, he's going to interrupt that, I just don't know how.

For me, this is how stories start. The first inklings in the brain, a tickle, almost, of my waking thoughts by something deeper, more primal. People and things inhabit these recesses of my brain, filtering out in a trickle at times, or in torrents at others. Some characters are shyer than others. Not in the traditional sense, but in that they tell me their story slowly, not wanting me to get too close. Not yet.

I have too many of these stories, floating about in my brain. Too many to put them all to words. So I listen to the loudest, the ones who are begging the most to get out. I keep notes on the others, letting them have a few words until it's there turn.

Christine, now I think she's going to be a hard one for me. I can see her, crying in the car, leaning her forehead against the steering wheel moments before the hand covers her mouth and yanks her back against the seat. I can see her, but I can't see him, and I don't know him. Until I do, she's going to float at the back of my mind.

It may well be that she'll speak to me as I drift off to sleep. Or when I'm writing to get my frustrations out, as Jessamine did. Or when I'm eager to put a story to words, as Sarah did. Or when I need to express my darkness, as Patience did. Or when I want adventure in my life, as Cara has been doing.

They're all women, yes I realize this. It's because I seek for strong women in my life. I want to be a strong woman. So if I can imbue my characters with love, strength, humor, and persistence, maybe I'll have some of those qualities in my life as well. I can hope.

It's late now, and though I have found inspiration when fatigued, tonight is not the night that Christine will speak to me. Maybe soon, but unfortunately, her story may have to wait until I've finished telling Jessamine's. But if Christine will tell it quickly and keep it short, I may be able to purge her story from my life and put it to paper. There she will haunt me still, but only as the specter of a story that has been told and that now is clamoring for an audience.

Dear Diary,

I know it's been a while since I've written. Really, I'm sorry. It's just, well, I've been busy. Life, work. It all seems to get in the way, somehow. I promise I'll be better, but for now, I'll just update you on what's going on with my life right now.

Work is good. After stressing the past few months (layoffs, the economy, general worry that I'm screwing everything up), my boss sat me down and told me to not worry while I'm at work. Then she took a few of my responsibilities off my plate. Things since then have felt nicer at work, though I'm still kicking myself for not being perfect yet. But with only two years into my chosen career, I'm not an expert. Maybe after three . . .

In other news, I did finish writing the first book I've ever written. Huge accomplishment, considering it took four years of my life to do so. Then after editing, I started submitting to agents. While several have nibbled, none have really taken the hook yet. Time will tell with that one.

Then this past month I went on to write another book, decided the story is longer than just one book can handle, and have since turned it into a trilogy. That means I've got a lot more writing to do. A lot. But I can handle it. It's something I really enjoy, and besides, I've got to give my heroine her happy ending or I just won't feel satisfied.

On the dating front, well, there is no front. There are no back or sides, either. Some may call it a drought. I prefer to think of it as the Mojave. While every once in a while a poor man wanders into the desert, he quickly finds a way out and is rescued by some other woman. Ouch.

Otherwise, life is good. I've got my vegetable garden all ready to plant in a few weeks. Flowers are springing up everywhere. Roommates are nice, though two will be moving out in a few months. (If you hear of anyone looking for a place to live, Diary, send them my way.) My writing is going really well. My family members are getting along, for the most part. Life isn't perfect, but, hey, when is it ever?

That's all the news I've got at the moment. I promise I'll be dropping by more often to visit. I'm sure it gets lonely on that shelf. Oh, and I will dust soon. I noticed you were a little dirty when I pulled you down. I'll get right on that . . . when I clean the rest of my room. Tomorrow. Or maybe Saturday. Sometime soon.

For now, I think I'm going to take a little Sunday nap. Oh, how I love those. Make the rest of the week so much sweeter. Take care, and I'll write again soon.

Michelle

In defense of criticism

It's hard to hear that you're not perfect, that your writing needs work and that you could do better—much better. But, honestly, that what we all need to hear, at one time or another. As we all work toward the end goal of getting published, improvement is what we should all strive for. And yet, there is definitely a place for support, encouragement, and pats on the back.

So where do we find such support and criticism, all rolled up into one? In my experience, it comes from other writers, from those who understand the difficulties and who keep trucking along despite the discouragement.

I've found writers support groups (aka critique groups) both online and in the real world. I wouldn't say that one is necessarily better than the other because they both provide an essential ingredient for writing—help.

The first writing support I ever received was from an online group of authors at Authonomy. Before that, I had even been afraid to mention to people who knew me that I actually was a writer, though many guessed it.

But the most important lessons I learned from those writers didn't necessarily have to do with the mechanics of writing, though they certainly helped with that. More, it was good to know that others struggled with writing as much as I did, that they weren't sure how to take character A from point D to the end at point Z. That they had to work and struggle to find time to write, and that sometimes their spouses weren't completely supportive of their efforts.

I made friends—some of whom will be lifelong, I hope—with the same interests as myself and who taught me how to be a writer.

Another important part of what I learned was how to critique others' work in a productive and humane manner. I learned to give as well as I took, and in the process, I could see mistakes that I made just as much as the person I was correcting. Being an editor, I've learned this over and again: learning how to pick out mistakes as well as good points in others' writing makes me a better writer when I incorporate those lessons into my own work.

I participated in that online writing forum for a good six months, but the time then came for me to move on. So instead of closeting myself with my writing, I decided to join a new critique group that was forming in my area.

We meet every three weeks, and as we get together, we share not only our writing, but also our lives and dreams and hopes as writers, and as people. It is different sitting around a table reading aloud to others and hearing them give comments on what I could improve or what they like. There is an intimacy in sharing your words aloud with people who are quickly becoming friends.

The reason I bring this up at all is because of a tiny suggestion someone made during our writing group last night. After I had finished reading from my newest book, someone remarked that maybe I should think of fleshing out the story even more and including a book at the beginning of what has become a two-part series. I didn't like the idea much last night, but as I think of it more today, I'm realizing the potential in that idea.

In another writing lifetime, if I hadn't had someone to tell me that, I very well may have written the story only to struggle finding an agent because it wasn't quite right. The story didn't begin where it should have; there was more of the tale to tell. It might have taken me much longer to realize this on my own, but because I had another writer critique my work, they set a tiny spark of an idea in my head that will hopefully become an even greater story than what I had before.

So my advice to all writers is to find other writers with whom you can share your work. Critique as a group or individually, but listen to what they tell you, even if you don't want to hear it at first. That is one of the best ways we can learn and grow as writers, and it is also one of the best ways to motivate ourselves to keep writing and improve upon our craft.

Writing can be a very solitary act, but when we include others in our work, it becomes something even greater. And although support from family and spouses is good, they might not be as completely honest in their assessment of our work as another writer who understands what it means to put words to the page. Seek other writers out. I promise, you'll benefit immensely from it.

Oh, my eyes!

Yes, I have had surgery on my eyelid, again. This makes the fourth time I've gone under the knife for two different styes. And this time the doc had to cut out part of the eyelid, though he said he left the eyelashes along. Please let him be telling the truth.

This is the first time I've ever had stitches, though. First time ever. Yep, in 28 years I've never had to be sewn up.

Don't get me wrong. I've had numerous bizarre accidents and injuries, but I've technically* never broken a bone or gotten stitches. If you don't believe me about the strange nature of my injuries, let me share a few choice examples with you:

1…. Eight years ago I took a study abroad trip over to London for 2 months, and I was so worried that I would hurt myself while far away from my family. (I tend to be somewhat of a hypochondriac, though generally won't admit it.) The gods were smiling on me during those months, but the moment I got back, they decided to have a little fun with me. A week after my trip, the same day I met my new roommates for the summer, we decided to have a friendly game of basketball in the swimming pool with some guys we all knew. Well, things got a little out of hand. Since I'm so small (5'1" to be exact) the guys would pick me up and throw me across the pool to get me out of the game. Things were raucous but harmless, that is until my roommate went up for a rebound and brought her elbow down . . . on my nose. It broke cleanly and left my nose completely crooked. There wasn't any blood, but boy did that sucker hurt. But as I always do when injured, I started laughing hysterically over how stupid I was to get hurt in such a bizarre way. They all thought I was faking it, until they saw my nose, that is. I had surgery a week later to fix it, but for several months afterward it hurt to blow my nose or even breathe. The reason it didn't bleed was because it broke right where the cartilage and the bone meet. The doctor said he'd never seen anyone with a break like that before.


2…. Well, a week after my broken nose, I was driving home from an appointment with the ENT (nose doctor) just before he was going to operate on it (it was such an odd break he decided he should knock me out since he might have had to cut it open to fix it). Just as I was headed down the street toward home, a car pulled out in front of me and I barreled into it. That's what I think what happened because I can't remember the 30 seconds before the accident happened. All I can remember was the airbag exploding into my face, smashing into my already broken nose. (This was before it got fixed, or otherwise I would have been one angry woman.) My dad's car, which I was driving at the time, was completely totaled even though I had only been driving 30 mph. At least it wasn't on the freeway where a head-on accident like that would have killed me. After that week, some of my friends were ready to stick me in a padded room to keep me from injuring myself even more.


3…. Continuing in the vein of broken bones, I was in a college apartment one night walking toward my bed when I smashed my middle toe in the cinder block holding up my roommate's bed. (Remember using cinder blocks to prop up the bed so more stuff could be stashed beneath? Great for storage, bad for toes.) I nearly cried it was so painful. Actually, I think my eyes did tear up. That little piggy hurt for weeks afterward, and I walked funny for a while until it stopped throbbing so much.


4…. Okay, one more broken bone story and then I'll move on to something else. When I was 10, my siblings and I were playing roller hockey out in the driveway. (Mighty Ducks was popular then, and roller hockey was all the rage in my neighborhood.) Sad to say, wheels on my feet plus my ability to injure myself are not a good combination. While standing still, my feet somehow flew out from under me and I landed, flat on my tush, on the hard cement driveway. Again, I laughed hysterically while my family looked at me like I was some strange child. All I can remember after that is how painful it was to lie in bed. For two whole weeks it was incredibly painful even to lie down, let alone sit. I still can't do sit ups to this day, and I'm sure my butt bone (tail bone, whatever) is crooked.

5…. Later on at the end of my childhood as I was trying so hard to become a woman, I decided that I needed to shave my legs. I didn't ask my mom because I was certain she would tell me no, so I went into the bathroom when no one else was around and proceeded to shave my legs. No one had ever told me that you need to use soap or shaving cream. A few minutes later, with large strips of skin shaved off, my mom came into the bathroom and saw my bleeding legs. She gently showed me the proper way to shave, after cleaning me up of course, and didn't care that I wanted to learn even though I was only 11 or 12 at the time. Now, I can't remember why I ever wanted to start shaving since it has become the bane of my morning showers.


6…. I have very tender skin, and even the slightest bump on an arm or leg will turn into a bruise, so sometimes while I'm getting into the shower I look down and see mysterious bruises that magically appear overnight. Most of the time I can't even remember how I got them.

7…. Many of those mysterious bruises probably come from my lack of coordination, or should I say my poor depth perception. I run into things all the time, especially when I'm groggy in the morning. After I've just woken up, I'm usually pretty wobbly and run into the walls, tables, chairs, whatever happens to be nearby. I also tend to smack my hip into tables and desks while walking past because I misjudge how far I am from the offending items. People at work find it rather funny when I yell because I've run into something.

8…. Several years ago I served as a church missionary in Montreal for a year and a half. The day before I left, I got a stye on my lower eyelid, but I was so preoccupied with moving and such that I didn't do much for it. Well, that sucker stayed on my eyelid, sometimes swelling up, sometimes subsiding, for the entire year and a half. Getting to the doctor in Canada was a pain, so I never thought it important enough to have one look at my eye. By the time I got home a year and a half, it was sore and rock hard. I went to the doctor and the pus was so hard he had to perform surgery on it twice to finally get rid of it.

9…. And I'll end with one of the funniest. When I was born, the soft spot on top of my head never really got hard. After two years, my parents took me to the doctor, who thought he would have to put a metal plate in my head to protect my poor little brain. After what my family attributes to a miracle, it finally did harden two weeks before I was to go in for surgery. So, thankfully, I do not set off metal detectors everywhere I go. But it would have been really great for head-butting people. Um, never mind.

*The nose, toe, and tailbone aren't normal bones you consider when speaking of broken bones. Never broken an arm or leg, though I always wanted a cast when I was a kid so people could sign it. I thought it a sign of coolness. (I really shouldn't say that because I've probably cursed myself now.)

Another milestone

I've done it, I've reached another milestone in my life. This one has the number "28" marked on it.

Normally when I think of milestones, I think of big accomplishments and extraordinary events. I haven't had many in this past year. But I still think it a great thing to celebrate the milestone of reaching another birthday, another year, older and wiser with a touch more humility and introspection.

It has been a year of moderate successes and even more modest failures. Of dealing with blunt rejection and coming to understand that nothing is ever easy that is worth the effort.

I've tasted the sweet (and savory) fruits of my labors as I've reaped the vegetables from a first-ever garden. I've made new friends while letting old friends go on their way.

I've learned how to become a writer through sweat and tears, and I've put away the notion that I must get it perfect on the first try. I've learned that dedication can push through obstacles—and writer's block.

I've also learned to forgive as well as mend a broken heart.

Those are wonderful milestones to be celebrated, but there are many more I want to honor next year.

I want to relearn how to cherish the small moments, and to worry more about finding time to appreciate life than forcing myself to get everything done right now.

I want to find balance in my life while remembering that passion is good—in moderation. I want to eat well and be healthy without obsessing over the fact that my pants are still tighter than I would wish them.

I want to push toward my goals without being felled by rejection and failure. I want to learn to love again for the sake of loving, no questions asked or nothing needed in return.

In essence, I want to be happy with who I am while constantly striving to improve.

But, on this day of milestones, I must also remember to thank those who've helped me get here. You are too numerous to mention, but I will keep all of you in my heart this day, and for the next 364.

All I ask is that you love me even when I'm a brat and forgive my foibles even when I have a hard time forgiving myself. Be there for me when I need you.

In return, I promise to love a little more each day and forget about myself to think of you a tad more. I'll remember you in my prayers and be better at telling you why I appreciate and love you.

In essence, I want to welcome you into my life and my heart without reservation.

So as I head into 28 I'll try to keep in mind that there is much to be grateful for from 27, but even more to look forward to in 28. Especially if you'll be there beside me.

Flashy fiction

Well, I got bored tonight, and as it often happens when I'm bored, I turned to the Internet to entertain me. This night it was Twitter that saved the evening with a fun little exercise in very, very flash fiction.

In essence, we told stories using 140 characters or less, per Twitter. I know it's not a new thing, but I find it a great skill to write succinctly.

The most famous of the succinct fiction would have to be Hemingway's six-word story:

For sale: baby shoes, never worn.

It is rather intriguing to put a story into so few words. Here are a few that we came up with tonight:

The plane landed, no one to greet her. Walking the tarmac, she knew what it was to be alone for the first time and for the rest of her life. —me

Cool, crisp and sweetly exotic. One satisfying bite and she had brought damnation upon the world. —me

You were just bitten by a laptop?" He asked.."I guess you'll have to go home and crash now." So I did, and lost my memory." —HECurtis_author

She threw the spatula, glaring as It quivered where it stuck in the wall. Tears dripped as she searched the empty cupboards —Cassidy_McKay

We held hands for the first time while staring into the abyss. You kissed my cheek whispering, “This is how the world ends.” —jimmyjacobson

What are your very short stories?


Edit: Our next very flash fiction day will be this Saturday, April 25. Sharpen your wits and join us at the #tinyfic hashtag on Twitter. Need help joining Twitter? Leave me a comment and I'll give you a tutorial.

Finished (sort of)

Well, I finished the first draft of Jessamine in three and a half weeks. Woo. I had planned a big blog post about how I'd done it, yada yada yada. But I'm so tired after being sick this week, it's all I can do to write. I ended at 48,000 words, which is just under what I was aiming for. But with the revisions, I'll be filling out a lot of places that I skimmed over while writing the first draft. It should be a decent length for a YA novel, though.

So now it's onto the sequel, which I'm calling Lady Jasmine for want of a better name. It'll work for now. I'm about 4,000 words in, and I want to keep writing. That's always a good thing, in my book. That means I'll be signing off here and get back to writing. Let's see if I can get this one onto the computer screen in even less time. (I did take about a week off as a break, so no breaks equals more productivity.)

Here we go . . .

Worlds collide

In our new-fangled, sparkly world of instant communication, lines tend to blur. I'm starting to notice that blurring in my own life as I participate in several forms of social networking.

During the daytime, I'm a nonfiction book editor. I like my job; it's fulfilling taking someone's words and polishing them up a little brighter and making beautiful books. I don't Twitter or Facebook during the day so I can focus on the work at hand. (With the minor exception of checking messages during lunch, and maybe responding to a few.)

At night, I write YA fiction books, and it's something I'm very passionate about. Often I spend my evening hours writing, editing, and networking with other writers and publishing professionals online.

But I also have a social life (sort of). I have friends, roommates, and family, all of whom I keep up with on Facebook because it's easy to see what people are doing and to send a quick note saying hi. (I also talk to them in real time, but for the purpose of this discussion, I do communicate with them frequently online.)

And now that it's known that I'm an editor on Twitter, I am starting to get a following interested in knowing about the publishing world as well.

My problem? I use the same social networking sites to communicate with these four different groups of people. This is where the blurring comes in. Because I want my friends and family to find me, I use my real name, and since co-workers and authors I edit know my name, they find me the same way.

For a time I used a pseudonym for my writing to keep these different aspects of my life separate. But now that I'm querying agents and seeking to have my writing published, I decided to use my real name for this as well. This is where the blurring becomes more of a tangled web.

This morning, another aspect of my lines crossed as a well-known querying website posted a list with my name and company on it. (I'm not upset, just rather surprised that they found that information.) I'd tried to keep where I worked private because I was worried about the additional blurring. Since it is now out of my control, I'll have to make sure that those lines don't compete with others.

In some ways it's fun to have all the aspects of my life in a few places that are easy for me to check, but it can be a big headache in other ways. When I tweet, I do so more about my personal life and my writing.

How do I juggle all these things without upsetting one group or another? I'm not sure. I'm testing these potentially tempestuous waters for the first time, as are many. There are some very vocal writers who don't like knowing anything personal about the agents or editors they follow on Twitter; they're following to get industry information and don't want to hear that they have personal lives as well.

Lines are crossing, blurring, and twisting with all these new social media. It can be tough making sure that everyone is pleased, but you're not going to be able to do it perfectly all the time. People will get upset. And if I've upset anyone with the blurring of my own lines, I do apologize. But at this point, I'm going to keep moving forward because I see a lot of benefit from participating in social media.

That said, I don't tweet specifics about work; I don't really tweet about work at all. If I do post anything related to editing, it will be knowledge I've learned without giving specific examples. My authors trust me not to divulge information about them or their work, and I'm not going to betray that trust. (And if any of the authors I work with are worried after reading this post, please call or email me and we can discuss.)

I will tweet about my personal life, though I try to keep the mundane out of it as much as possible. Knowing me, though, some of it is likely to slip in.

And my writing will be a good part of what I share, especially as I go through the same process of querying and writing and revising as so many other authors out there.

So this is my way of telling my Twitter followers and anyone I know personally that I don't share information that is not mine to share. You needn't worry. And if you ever feel like I've crossed one of these lines, let me know. I'd rather clear the air than let anything languish.

(And just so everyone knows, I'm writing this at home, sick. I was pondering it a lot since I've nothing else to do of at the moment, but I don't want anyone to think I'm neglecting work.)

Delights of getting old

I'm bored, tired, and not in the mood to work on my book, so that means it's time for a free write. The name of this game is I write until I say something interesting, though that sometimes never happens. Either way, it keeps my brain occupied and keeps me from falling asleep at 7 pm. Must wait until at least 8 so as not to be thought an old woman.

Speaking of old, I'm feeling rather so at the moment. Several times this week I've had conversations with co-workers about how as we hit around 28, women's bodies change so much that we get tired faster, can't stay up and party all night like we used to, gain weight quicker and lose it slower, and a host of other fun, aging-related things.

Well, my birthday is in a week and a half. And yes, I will be 28. It is the beginning of the end, I fear, and I'm not even married yet. How in the world will I have stamina to chase after children in my old age? That's if I get married in time to have them.

Really, though. That's why women have historically had children when they're younger: because they have enough energy to chase naked toddlers around the house and keep babies from painting the walls with their poop. I can't believe that I'll have it in me, especially if I'm still working. How do women do it while retaining their sanity?

It's a rite of passage, being 28. People generally think of 30 in that way, but I really think this year my body will start falling apart even more than it has. Once I hit that day, I'll be needing a wheelchair to get around because my knees will finally give out. I've already had a crown on one tooth, so the rest are surely going to fall out soon. And my back. Oy, my back!

Maybe they had it right, back in the day, when people were having kids in their teens and becoming grandparents in their thirties. By the time you hit forty, well, you're pretty much heading for the grave.

Oh, I'll keep plugging along, but I think this may be the moment when I realize that I let my youth slip away. Late nights. Parties. Traveling the world. Oh, where did the time go? Sigh.

Well, if you don't hear from me in the next few days, check my room because I may have died. It's probably cancer. Or a seizure. That happens a lot when you get old.

You can bury me out back next to my peas that are sprouting in my garden. I figure I'll make good fertilizer. And for the headstone, you can write anything so long as it's not a sappy, boring poem. I don't know if I could stand rotting for eternity under something like that. It would make me more bitter than I already am.

(Most of the above is in jest. Mostly. Oh, how I make myself giggle.)

A needed break

So I went camping this weekend and was fully prepared to write my life away with laptop and modes of charging said laptop and notebooks in case said laptop decided it didn't want to charge. But when I got there, I had no desire to write. Instead, I was content to sit around the fire and talk with my family and enjoy being outside.

I have two thoughts on what this could mean: a) I needed a short break from the frenzied pace I've been writing the past few weeks, or b) I've lost my mojo/writing juices/stamina.

Now it very well could be a combination of the two, but I'm leaning more toward option a. The reason for that is sometimes when I get excited about a project, I tend to go full-speed-ahead no matter what else may be in the way. I tend to be a hyper-focused person who likes to charge in and get things done. When I get an itch to write, I don't like it when people interrupt that. It really annoys me, in fact.

But life has a way of interrupting my plans, and that usually involves me wearing myself out to the point where I get sick. I've been feeling really worn out since January when I started getting stomach bugs and the full-fledged flu, but still I pressed on with my various writing projects. Even when I started getting sick a few weeks ago, I kept at my writing efforts.

This single-mindedness can get things done, but it can also be a detriment to my already-precarious health. Besides, I was getting stuck as to what my characters were to do immediately, anyway, so a little time and distance can help move things along.

I'm definitely going to jump back into writing starting tomorrow, but I think writers in general can benefit from taking a break and completely forgetting what the latest writing project is. We get so wrapped up in our imaginary worlds, we sometimes forget that there is a real one surrounding us that needs our attention as well.

So, the point of all this is that I'm pretty sure I haven't lost anything other than time in my little break and have instead gained some sanity and needed distance and perspective on the whole project.

Adventure stories: guys vs. gals

I was thinking this morning as I lay in bed that everyone loves a good adventure story. Most of the time when people think of adventure, danger, and fighting in stories, they think of the the male dominated ones with war, blood, and violence. But if you take a look at some of the popular stories for women, there is a definite trend toward action and adventure, but with a slightly different motive.

I'm a big fan of girls kicking butt movies. One prime example: Tomb Raider. I love seeing strong female characters who can hold their own and even outwit their male counterparts. Alias and Buffy were popular shows for this reason as well. Women, who have been rendered powerless for so long in most cultures around the world, are fighting back, and the stereotypical female character needing saving is the first one to go.

Recent books are rife with strong female leads who must save themselves because the men are too clueless to do it for them. Some of my favorite teen romance stories involve heroines who are thrust into the spotlight and action because the man isn't there to save them. A few examples: Goose Girl, by Shannon Hale, and Crown Duel, by Sherwood Smith. Both girls take an active role in saving themselves and their kingdoms because the men can't figure out how to do it. Yes, there is the obvious element of romance in these stories, but the key is that the women find a compatible match with an equally strong man and don't settle for any brawny man who comes along to rescue them.

There is another trend in literature and movies that actually makes me nervous. That of the spineless heroine who can't do anything without her man to rescue her, a la Twilight. Bella is the epitome of the whiny, annoying, spineless female character. But, if you actually made it to the fourth book, you'll notice that Bella actually does grow a spine in addition to those fangs. So even a wimpy female lead learns how to fight back, though too late for many women to care because of the first three nausea inducing books.

The main difference between action focused on men and that focused on women is the need for romance. Men want sex, women want to be swept off their feet (but that doesn't necessarily mean rescued). While men will be content to watch Angelina Jolie kick some man's butt because she's wearing a skin-tight outfit, women want to see her find her perfect match—after she's done a little butt-kicking.

That's a really long ramble, but my point is that women like adventure as much as men. A lot less blood and guts, for sure, but there's a part of us that wants the men to let us join them in their world-saving efforts and kick a little trash of our own. Besides, a little action is great fodder for romantic entanglements, and who couldn't use a few of those.

Vampirical writing?

I had an interesting discussion the other day with a friend who is pregnant, and the topic turned to how some babies seem to require so much energy from their mothers while still in the womb. She mentioned the last Twilight book, and how it was like a vampire baby, taking all the life of the mother.

Now, she's very excited to have a child, and it was just an interesting and funny conversation, but I can't help thinking of how that relates to writing, and mine in particular.

For the past two weeks I've been writing feverishly. My newest book has taken on its own life and consumed me. I can't seem to do anything else at night or on the weekends but write. Any other activity feels like I'm wasting time when I could be writing.

This very well could be my ability to hyperfocus on just about anything. I really do have a one-track mind when it comes to something I'm passionate about. But I wonder if other writers ever experience this. Does writing your book, or thinking of plot, or brainstorming characters ever become so all-consuming that it's almost like the booking is sucking the life out of you so that it can live?

That's what I'm experiencing now, and though draining, it is exhilarating. I love every minute that I can sit, unfettered and unbothered, and write until the words dry up for the night. But then I go to bed and can't sleep because I'm thinking about what happens next, what turmoils my characters are facing. I'm living vicariously through them for a time, but it really does feel like I'm living a life much more exciting than my own.

I'm almost sad for when that time will end, but I've a few weeks yet before the story is completed and I start into the revision process. But as a writer, I know I'll jump right back into another story when the time is right, ready to give my life over to another mewling book desperate for its creators attention.

Guilty

Yes, I am guilty. I am very mean to my characters. Unbelievably mean to them. First I make them fall in love when they don't want to, and then I break their hearts. How cruel is that?

The funny thing is, I'm feeling really guilty about it as well. I think with all the intense writing I've done these past week and a half (33,000 words and 125 pages in that time), I've gotten so emotionally involved with the characters. Too involved, actually, to the point where it makes me cry to think of what I'm going to do to them.

I really am a sap. I bawled while writing certain scenes in my last book, and even cried again while revising. Now I'm crying just thinking about what I'm going to do to the new characters.

Really, it makes me think of the movie Stranger than Fiction. I can completely understand the writer agonizing over killing her characters after realizing that one of them is real. My characters feel real to me. They become like myself, probably because they are a part of me.

Am I alone in this? Do any of you writers get so attached to your characters that it wounds your heart to break theirs?

Maybe I'm too emotional, but I'm thinking that it probably is a benefit as a writer. When I become part of the story, live the story, it makes it better in the end. At least I think so.

So I'm off to cry some more as I think of all the horrible tricks I'm about to play on my characters. But, being the soft-hearted person I am, I can remind myself that it will all work out well for them in the end. They may hate me, but I can live with that.

Saved

I had a scare last night—a big scare. While hurrying to save my new manuscript and vacate Starbucks before they locked me in (would that really be a bad thing?), I pulled out the jump drive from my laptop a touch too fast.

When I got home to continue writing, the document was gone. Gone. In its stead was a black hole. The entire file had disappeared.

Stupid me, I hadn't saved the manuscript to either my desktop or my laptop recently. The latest version I had was 6,000 words less. I could have restructured it, but the thought was disheartening.

After much frantic searching and calls to family members, I found a program to download that would save my poor book. For a mere $129 dollars (I say that sarcastically since I am in penny-pinching mode at the moment) I could recover the document. I bit the bullet and paid. Thankfully, I was able to recover everything. Around midnight, I finally went to bed with the peace of mind knowing that I had my book saved in three separate places.

Moral of this story? Triple, quadruple, quintuple save all your documents—especially books you're writing. I've learned my lesson. Have you?

Off now to email the document to myself just in case my house burns down and all my saved versions are incinerated. Can't be too careful. (And now I'm knocking on wood not to curse myself.)

Jessamine

Lightning flashed and thunder boomed. The earth shook with the roar of the heavens. No one would see her, shadow that she was, slinking along the abandoned street. Time to bury the thing and be done with it. Already it had caused more trouble than she cared for. A little trouble at times weren’t no problem. When that trouble took on life and opened its gaping jaws to swallow her down to hell, well, that was a tad much.

She weren’t no fool neither. Jessamine had all the smarts an urchin could gather. She knowed she was a pawn. Those big men could tell her sweet things till their tongues rotted, but she knew better. They lied, all the time. She weren’t no beauty, no matter what they said, just some street kid they plucked out of them filthy gutters like a rotting tomato. And they didn’t even come find her themselves. Sent some retarded lackeys to do the job for them. Why, even them priests with their visions and prophecies wouldn’t step down the street they dreamed ’bout.

Breath fogged in front of her petite nose as she peered around the corner of a crumbling building. Guards stood watch at the city gates, probably told to keep her inside. Well, them soldiers was dumber than dishwater. Couldn’t be helped, with such little pay. But it made sneaking around the city that much easier for her and her mates.

Those crummy boys hadn’t stood their ground, though, when them soldiers came rushing up to grab her all those weeks ago. Musta figured she was done for with all them swords a pointing at her little head. Couldn’t even find them tonight in their usual haunts when she’d looked. She’d just have to leave the city on her own, no help from anyone. She didn’t need no help, though. How many times she snuck past them foolish guards? Too many to count, considering she didn’t know her numbers so well.

Her chance to slip past came when watch changed for the night. Two sauntered off to greet replacements, the fools, leaving their backs open. Jessamine stole quick to the gate and slipped through the shadows as more lightning lit the sky. Holding her breath, she waited for the blinding light to leave her eyes. Seconds later, the echoing pound of thunder covered the sound of her feet thudding across the bridge.

Her kifed boots touched dirt on the other side while she paused to get her bearings, what with white spots dancing across her vision. Wind whipped long brown hair about her head as she spotted a grove off to her right. Perfect. She would bury the blasted necklace there. No use carrying the thing about her neck longer than she must, and then she’d be on her merry little way. Running for the trees, her stolen servants rags twisted about her legs in all that wind. Her hand closed about the bauble bouncing furiously on her chest. She dropped to her knees, ready to pull that thing off and thrust it into the ground, when lightning crashed and thunder boomed in unison.

All that light rushed straight to the ground in front of her where she’d wanted to plant the durned necklace. Instead of ridding herself of the thing, the metal chain fused securely around her neck with all that energy flowing around her.

“Aw, sh—” The world went black as a tree limb fell atop her pretty little head.

———

“Jasmine. Lady Jasmine.” Cold and water dripped down her face, getting her wet.

“T’aint my name.” Groggy, she tried to sit up, but firm hands pushed her back down. “Get that blasted rag off my face, you putrid—”

“My lady! That is no way to address your servants.” The chamberlain bustled about the room, shooing servants out.

“And I’m not ‘Your lady.’ Never been no lady, won’t never be one. Might as well throw me out on the street again for all the ‘Lady’ I’ll ever be.”

“Now, dear Lady, we’ve been over this. The priests saw you wearing the Jasmine Pendant in a vision of light. They saw the glory of your countenance beneath the filth in which you lived. It was they who brought you to us, the future savior of our kingdom. Who else is to rescue the captured prince and avenge our slain king?”

“Lay that ‘savior’ crap on me one more time and I’m likely to bring my dinner up all over your fancy little robe.” Jessamine pushed aside the serving girl and tried to sit up. Her head wobbled on her neck, and she fell against them soft pieces of fluff they called pillows. What had happened to her? She tried to ask when the chamberlain shushed her again.

“Sleep, Lady Jasmine. We’ll speak more after you’ve rested.”

“Sleep, my eye. Tell me now or I’ll wake the whole castle. You know I will.”

His face looked weary, but he sat on a chair beside the bed. “The guards found you at the foot of a tree struck by lightning. They say you were filled with the light of heaven though you were not burned. Not a hair on your head was singed.” He paused.

“Say it, or I scream,” Jessamine threatened.

“The pendant. We are, ah, unable to remove it from around your Lady’s neck. It seems the lightning fused it to your person and it is now permanently part of you.”

Jessamine gasped. Filthy liar! They’ve tried to make her wear that blasted thing at every moment, and now he says she can never take it off? They’ll see. Why she’ll . . . She felt about her neck and couldn’t locate the chain. How could he say it was there when it wasn’t?

Anger filled her face at his lies—until he brought up a mirror in front of her face that a servant had brought over from the dressing table. There, about her neck, was a delicate silver line that looked so much like the necklace tattooed upon her skin. Then right above the hemline of the nightdress she could see the white starburst of the flower pendant upon her pale skin. White as death it was. Her face paled to match, but still the outline was still clear.

She grasped for it, felt along her skin, but it was smooth as the day she was born. No bumps, no depression. It was as thought she was born with a horrid birthmark.

Those horrid priests had done this to her, cursed her for life. She would be their pawn for the rest of her days, unable to hide their mark upon her. Jessamine never should have stolen the necklace from that old crone. How could she have been so stupid?

Just one of them days

You know, there are times where I really hate hormones. They screw with your life when you least need it.

This past week has been full of "them days." Probably just a pre-spring, winter's-still-hanging-on funk. But that doesn't mean I have to like it.

I hate the fact that I'm not perfect. I hate messing up and making every mistake there possibly is to make. If I were better, smarter, wiser, then maybe my world wouldn't fall down around me so often.

No need to worry about me, folks. It's just one of them days, and it will pass. I'm sure you've had them as well. But for the moment, I really want to vent and get it all out.

I'm single. Never had a boyfriend. Never been on more than two dates with one guy. Mainly because I attract weirdos and psychos, but that's neither here nor there.

It's not that I'm desperately lonely or desperate to be married. It's more that I want to find someone I can be honest with, who I can love without worrying what he's always thinking of me. I want someone who will listen to everything I have to say without judging, and without me worrying that he'll hate me because I really am crazy when you get down to it. But that won't matter because he'll have to be crazy in his own ways to love me.

I want that bond with another human that one finds once in a lifetime, if then. Not much to ask for. I'm just asking for the world.

So me, as pathetic as I am at this moment, turn to the ether of the internet to pour out my sorrows and assuage my grief. Nothing tangible, really, just a sense of loss that I can't explain.

But another day moves on, and I must prepare for bed and get ready for the Groundhog Day that is my life. Wash, rinse, repeat.

Probably the biggest sense of loss is that I can't take my life in the direction I want it to go because I am dependent upon others for some of the choices I wish I could make for them. Marriage, book deal, travel, buying a home. All of those things are not in my control right now, and it kills me.

What is there to do, though, but stick with what I have and keep moving along. Like the good trained ferret I am, I will go about my life in the semblance it is now until I can shatter that monotony and shake it all up. I will persevere because there is nothing else I can do at the moment.

So, control what I can. Plant my garden. Write my books. Do my best at work. Plug along until it isn't quite so hard and the days don't feel quite as long.

It will get better. Always does. So no worrying about me, now. Just needed to vent, is all. Go back to your merry life and don't mind me.