Part Two

The move progresses.

Unfortunately, not at the happy and problem-free pace one would hope for.

Do you remember Mr normal, non-creepy, drama-free, chill dude from last week?  I called him up and said I liked the house, liked the neighborhood and would like to move in.  You know what he said?  Nothing.

He didn't answer the phone.  Nor did he return my message.  Not the first one, not the second.  Neither did he answer my e-mail.  *rolls eyes*  Honestly, people.  It's a roommate situation, not a date.  As a friend of mine said, "he turned me into a psycho ex-girlfriend," making me call all the time, waiting for some crumb of attention that's never going to come.  Tell me men, how hard is it to just say, "no" or "the room is already rented"?

Anyway, that was a disheartening experience.  The first place I saw where I could really imagine myself living, and he didn't want me.  Even worse, he couldn't bother to tell me he didn't want me around, so I wound up wasting four whole days of finding another space - putting me into panic mode instead of ahead-of-the-game mode.  But find another space I did.

It's a bit more expensive than the first place, and it's in a snootier part of town, but it's sooooo cute!  It's the kind of cute where I might be forced to post pictures once I move in.  The landlord believes in colour, so he's painted the walls with strong bold colours - each room is different.  And he upgraded the joint to a state where HE would want to live, not just a state where it's livable.

There are skylights.  Two of them - and one of them is going to be over my bed.  My BED people!  He closed in the patio in order to get more room.  There's a walk-in closet and tiled floors.  It's also pet-friendly.  I am a happy Venus.  I made three trips to Phoenix, saw about twenty places, and put over 800 miles on my car in order to find the right fit.  I deserve skylights, dammit.

On the other side of the coin, the packing progresses on pace.  As do the daily asthma attacks brought to you by the letter D (for dust).  My groovy, fantastic friend (GFF) boxed up my kitchen yesterday.  All the cupboards are empty, and I've been attempting to empty out my cleaning supplies on each new surface as it is uncovered. 

I've been forbidden to purchase anything edible, and have been given instructions to eat out of my fridge or off the few dry goods I was allowed to keep on the counter.  I'm trying to approach it like a stay at a Residence Inn, but it's beyond weird to walk into my kitchen and see it so bare.

I have a suitcase packed - out of which I'm living.  My cat is FREAKING OUT and my bathroom is stripped clean of all girly things.  All my books have found a box to inhabit and I was ordered to return all checked-out books to the library and NOT to pick up any more because if I get them, I'm going to read them.  Ummm, yeah, no.  I mean, yes, of course I'll read them.  That's the point.  But, she thinks I'll read them instead of packing while not under her eagle eye.  She is right.  But if I don't read, I go crazy.  So I couldn't agree to that latest edict.  But I did pick up the pace on the solo packing to prevent getting in trouble.  Yes, I'm scared of her. 

The movers are going to come by on Sunday.  My first-born has already been promised, and after GFF packed my kitchen I've also pledged my second-born, so the movers are going to have to settle for good, old-fashioned legal tender, but I have a feeling they'd prefer a limb instead.  Or maybe two, both an arm and a leg.  I researched them though, and they get high marks for customer satisfaction, plus they were upfront about their quote and I'm willing to believe that they won't screw me over.  Still, I'll be a one-armed, one-legged, childless wonder when this is all done.

In other news, I broke a tooth last week.  I haven't gotten in taken care of because I can only handle one emergency at a time, and right now moving is taking up all my stress.  I don't have the effort for dental stress too.

The moment my eagle has landed in the new home, I get to find a dentist.  Ugh.
Make that a one-armed, one-legged, childless, toothless wonder.

 

 
 
Just finished: The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society
Just finished: Eight Grade Bites: The Chronicles of Vladimir Tod
Just finished: Undead and Unpopular
Currently reading: Pride & A Pregnancy Secret
Currently reading: The Boy Who Never Grew Up 

So I was reading this book the other day...

No, I'm not going to tell you which one. 

And I realized halfway through that even though I was enjoying the story, I wasn't buying it.  You see, in this book, the heroine was afraid to get serious about the hero because someone in his family had treated her badly before.  The setup is a lot more complex than that, but that's the gist of it.

Now, in all the set-up and character building and world building etc, I understand that there's not always room for everything a reader would like to see.  But the thing is, in this book, the whole crux of her internal obstacle rested on the fact that his family had treated her badly, and even for the sake of love, she wasn't willing to put up with being treated badly again.  I buy it.  I totally do.  We girls need love, but we need dignity too, and one can't come at the expense of the other.

However - for all that the author went on and on about how badly the heroine was treated, she never SHOWED us. 

At first it was a teaser.  A good way to keep your reader interested in the heroine's emotional turmoil.  Little bits of this and that were told to us through third-party eyes.  There were allusions to the humiliations she'd suffered.  Occasionally she'd even speak about it in her own words, but only to say that she wouldn't speak about it. 

The set-up slowly moved from titillation to frustration.  Through all 400+ pages we hear about how awful this family was to her.  But the author never showed us.  Ever.  I needed a flashback.  I needed the moment she broke and said, "no more" or, conversely, the moment she was first broken by those bastards.  Something to feel and touch and taste how awful it was to be in the heroine's shoes, so I could truly get behind her objection to being with her hero.

Imagine talking to someone about Hurricane Katrina.  The story I got felt like the perspective of someone who had watched it on TV.  They glued themselves to the set, they memorized every statistic and cried along with the nation, but that isn't the story I'm interested in.  That's a story I already know.  I want the story of the survivor on her roof.  The person trapped in that hellhole stadium, the guy trying to hold on to three kids with only two arms as he wades through rushing storm water.  The Anderson 360 type of stories are the ones that bring the pain home to a place that pierces my heart.  The rest is talking heads and manufactured sympathy.

The author never delivered.  There was a second or two in real time when the author gave us a sneer from the family so we could understand that the dislike continued through to today, but what the book was begging for was a good ol' fashioned flashback.  Is there some new rule about flashbacks I haven't heard yet?  Like the anti-epilogue camp and the no prologue war?  I know there's a whole "write in the now" thing, and there's a (proven) theory that once you start talking in the "had" you're taking your reader out of their need to turn the page because you're no longer talking about the current story ... but it's easy to avoid that.  I know it's easy, because I've not only read it, I've done it, and if a brand-new baby writer like me can do it, a published edited author sure can.

So anyway, I finished reading the book.  I never got my flashback and I was left with a vaguely unsatisfied feeling.  I wish I knew, in the grand scheme of things, whether this was an editorial or authorial failing.  Was the editor the one pushing for the flashback to be taken out?  Or was she pushing for more info on why the heroine was so resistant, not realizing that by doing so she was only whetting reader appetite?  Was the author unaware that she'd only provided appetizers and skimped on the meat?  Is the author firmly anti-flashback and wouldn't be caught dead writing one?  I'll never know.

I do know what I'm doing with the book though, I'm putting it on my PBS bookshelf as it's in high demand, and when someone snaps it up, I'll be more than happy to pass it on.





Just finished: A Promise To Cherish

Time to love

I read a review the other day where someone said that they didn't buy the HEA because the amount of time from when the heroine met the hero, to when they declared their undying love, was too little.  It was only a matter of days, or less than two weeks, something like that.
 
This is an issue I've faced in my own writing.  I tend to be very H & H focused and don't give a lot of page time to side-stories and subplots.  To me it's all about the journey H & H travel once they meet each other, and often, I put them in situations where they don't want to be away from each other.  They meet, recognize the chemistry, and then act on it - staying together until the end.

Sometimes I see the need in my work for the H & H to have more time together.  Not time on the page, but simple physical time in terms of days and weeks.  But I feel like wedging in those days slows down the story.  Usually my work is designed just like the books say - pile on problem after problem, only giving partial solutions until the ultimate Black Moment demands that everything either comes together or falls apart. 

This, by necessity, creates me writing long, intricate days where a lot of things happen to H & H that draw them closer emotionally while they solve their problems together.  They are not allowed to rest and re-coup.  They don't have down time to sit and bask in the shiny, happy presence of each other.  They battle their personal odds at greater stakes each time.  And they don't take two weeks off in the middle to date and spend time gazing at their navels thinking "does she or doesn't she?"

So how do you find that balance?  Readers want, need and deserve to have a story that constantly moves forward.  But characters deserve to have their futures built on something more stable than seven days of crazy and some damn good boinking. 

I'm moving right now, and one of the things I'm doing for myself is taking the time to digest each potential living situation so I'm not making a rash decision.  I'm taking the time to deliberate on both my needs and my wants - and that's just about a temporary place to rest my head for the next few years, not who I'm going to have children and build a life with.  Why would I expect any less consideration in my characters?

In fact, in Orion's Kiss, I went back and added an extra day for H & H to get better acquainted before they took off on a mini road-trip together.  I knew he needed more time to care enough about her to want to travel with her, and she needed more time to trust him with a few of her secrets.  Yet, the plot and tension advances based on a couple of timelocks, so their trust in each other develops in a pressure-cooker.  And their personal revelations are the result of both stress and necessity.  The whole 400 pages take place in a matter of five days. 

In Never A Bridesmaid they have maybe a week together before the Black Moment.  Sure they go through some tough things during that week, but is seven days really enough to know that you want someone in your life forever?  

It could be that in my writing my characters live the way I never would in reality.  I'm not talking about aliens and bone-melting orgasms.  I'm talking about letting my characters take risks and jump in with both feet in situations where I'd be a lot more cautious.  My life wouldn't sell as a book, but my characters are living a steroidal version of life.  It has to be harder, better, faster, stronger for them.  Otherwise my readers will fall asleep. 

 
Regardless, I suspect I'm still going to have to rely on a willing suspension of disbelief.





Currently reading: E is For Evidence

I spent the weekend looking for a new home.

I am lucky in many ways. Some I'm not willing to post publicly, some relate directly to this post.

For example, right now, I am lucky to not be working, because it gives me time to search carefully for a new place to live.  I am lucky to have a brilliant, wonderful, friend to help me move.  I am lucky to be able to afford enough gas to spend two days driving all around hell & gone (aka Phoenix) in search of the perfect living situation. And I am lucky that it's a buyer's market so I had a plethora of choices.

By the time I headed north on Friday I had 24 people / places on my list to visit. I couldn't get to all of them, I didn't even want to. Let me give y'all some hints when offering a place to rent in your home.

First of all ... make sure it doesn't smell. I know sometimes it's tough to recognize scents in your own home, but a fair application of baking soda, or maybe, I don't know, opening a window, should do the trick.

Secondly ... don't offer the broom-closet under the stairs and expect to pay off your mortgage. I saw so many small rooms that would barely hold my queen-sized bed, much less my bed and dresser - and had people asking $500+  for the privilege of that space.  Do a bit of market research folks, I can get my own apartment for that money and not have to put up with you.

Third ... don't be creepy.  This one is mostly for the men.  Specifying you'll only have a female roommate because you're divorced and women "make a house a home" whereas men "tend to be slobs," means that you're actually looking for a housekeeper / live-in mistress, not a roommate.  And do I really need to say that you shouldn't mail me a "roommate interview" questionnaire that reads like a dating profile?  "Two things that  people first notice about me" is not an acceptable question to ask a roommate.

It's also none of your business what I do for a living, or how I make my money.  It might come up in conversation after we've met, but really all you should be concerned about is if I can cover my financial obligations to you.  Okay, okay, maybe it is your business to a small extent, but I don't like it and I can tell when you're judging the answer, so just fuck off already.

Fourthly ... when you claim that you want to welcome someone into your home, make sure there's room for them.  Move your crap out of the room you're renting (isn't that obvious?) and have some space in your home for them to put their stuff.  Lots of folks are moving with more than the clothes on their back.

Fifth ... don't expect anyone to maim or hobble their animal for you.  Thank God no one asked this of me, but some of the ads and contacts were implied.
"Is your cat declawed?" "No." "Ooooh."
"I don't mind a cat, but can it stay in your room?"  "She's shy, but I can't promise she'll never explore." "Humph."
Let me remind you again, it's a buyer's market - and I can get an apartment.  I'm looking for a room in a home for 2 reasons, to save money and to give myself a social contact in a new city.  But neither of those things are going to compel me to chop off my cat's claws at the first knuckle, torturing her unnecessarily, leaving her defenseless and maiming her.  Neither am I going to lock her up in a 9x9 room for the rest of her life.  She deserves freedom of movement within her domain, as we all do.

Sixth ... this is a combo.  If someone wants to see your place, call them back.  If you actually want to rent the joint, answer the phone.  If they are driving out of their way to meet with you for the specific purpose of renting a room, don't make them meet you somewhere else first unless there's a damned good reason.  Be willing to show a place if you want to rent it - ie don't tell a prospective renter that you "don't do looky-loos."  Don't be pushy, elitist or rude.

OTOH, I did meet some lovely folks.  One of the roommates at the first place I went wound up coming dancing with me that night.  And proceeded to share 1/4 of her life story with me.  There was the guy who was willing to paint the room any colour I wanted.  Isn't that sweet?  Then there was the guy who needed to move out because his mother was terminal - he was one of the friendliest and kindest strangers I met all weekend. He even offered to help me find a job where he works, whether I took the place or not.

So, with all of these caveats and nice folks and 400 miles worth of driving, where did I wind up?
Nowhere.  Yet. 

Heh.

But I did find a really good space that I think I can live in.  I wanted to give the guy a minute to think it over, so I didn't call him today, but I do plan to ring him tomorrow and ask if he'll have me.  When all was said and done I went with the chill guy who was calm, friendly and normal on the phone.  He was the same in person.  I didn't smell any drama or creepiness in the air.

He offered not just a room, but also space for me to live in.  The rooms and house were clean without being sterile.  The neighborhood was beautiful.  The price was fair.  I can actually see myself living there.  I've spent more than a few minutes mentally arranging myself and my stuff in his house and it works.  It's not the perfect living situation.  I don't get my own unicorn and a thousand dollar stipend for waking up in the morning, but it's pretty damned good.

Tomorrow I'll make the call and see if he was as impressed with me as I was with him.  If not, I have someone else on backup who also has room for me and my stuff, but her neighbourhood consists of tract homes and the price isn't as good.  If both of them turn my ass down, I can spend another day up in Phoenix looking for perfection, but I think I'll just go with an apartment instead.  I'm used to my own company and know I won't be disappointed with it. 
 




Just finished: Heartless 
Just finished: Too Hot to Handle
Currently reading: E is For Evidence 
Currently reading: Forsaking All Others

Seven things you don't (want to) know about me

The fabulous Erika nominated me for a blog award.  The Kreativ Blogger award.  Ergo I am to share seven things about myself and then pass the award along to seven other blogs.  Here goes:
 
1. I've lived in three countries and am from a small, sub-tropical island.  Most people are floored when I tell them that I live in the desert by choice.

2. I make the best tuna casserole you'll ever taste.  That's probably because I use 5 different sources of dairy and never skimp on fresh ingredients.  But it takes about 2 hours to make -- all of them standing at the stove -- so I don't bother with it too often.

3. My toes are the cutest things ever.  They are connected to equally cute feet, but it's really the toes that stand out.

4. I prefer TV to movies and radio to a music collection.

I feel like I should qualify this though.  I have crappy, crappy cable - the lowest level of service they will even bother to hook up.  (I get channels 3-16 and CNN, but six of those channels are in Spanish or are shopping networks so I only really get about eight stations.)  As a result,  I'm not addicted to TV.  I don't watch reality shows (except SYTYCD, BABY!) I just like the scripted, prime time stuff.  And I'm usually doing other things when the TV's on - commercials are the savior of any multi-tasker.  When I turn it off, it's all about the reading.

In my house I listen to my MP3 collection, but when I'm in the car it's all about radio.  It's one of the ways I hear new music.  On road trips though, it's back to the MP3s. 

5. I don't drink.  I tried to learn how, but it was a dismal failure.  Most of the time I just stick to water.

6. It takes over 2 hours (sometimes 3) to "do" my hair from start to finish ... and it usually lasts about four days when done.  My hair looks pretty damn fantastic when it's done, but I'm always so irritated that I have to plan more than 2 uninterrupted hours in my day to devote solely to hair, that I rarely bother to do it.  When my hair is not done, it looks like ass.
So, yes.  Most of the time my hair looks like ass.  (And not cute J.Lo booty ass either, but overweight-sweaty-plumber-crack ass.)

7. I have a hummingbird feeder on my patio and one hummingbird has set up camp in the pine tree about 10 feet away.  It spends all day defending the feeder from any interlopers.  And there are many interlopers.  I get a weird, sick satisfaction from watching them fight for the nectar I provide.   



I did a quick Google search for Kreative Blogger Award and got over seven million hits.  I'm sure as heck not gonna wade through them to find out where this thing started, but I'm happy to pass it along to a few sites that bring a smile to my face and mebbe a couple of random ones too.  Unfortunately, I only have a few followers, so I doubt they'll ever see it.  But never let it be said I didn't do my part in passing the luuuuuuuuuuuv along.



Hot Chicks Dig Smart Men

Margaret and Helen

The Intern

A Hook A Line and A Girl (random)

Infinite Learners (random)

Stonekettle Station

3 Twisted Sisters (random)




Just finished: Dangerous Lover
Just finished: To Kiss A Texan
Currently reading: Santa Olivia

The End Of The Book

No, not mine.

I mean all the physical books out there. The fiction. The joyous, well-written novel that half of us are striving to create, and the other half are striving to find in our TBR.

I like reading paper books. I've mentioned it before. The e-reader has no allure to me, except for this month, when I'm moving, and contemplating putting more than half of the books I own on PBS so I won't have to pack them. (The other half is jealously guarded from the packing fiends who would have me donate them to a library.)

Anyway, I like reading paper, and as any author knows, books, stories have a rhythm. They have a pace of highs and lows they follow to keep the reader interested and on edge and turning the pages. Some talk about the W plot, some talk about The Black Moment, others merely refer to the near simultaneous need for the internal and external conflict to resolve themselves just before the book ends. It's all about keeping the reader so interested that they can't wait to find out what happens next.

Which brings me to my quibble about the ends of books. I don't know when it started. I don't know what marketing "guru" decided that this was the perfect way to waste more pages, but I have serious issues with the Promo Chapter. You know, that extra 10 or 20 pages at the END of the book I'm reading which trick me into thinking there's going to be another twist, another conflict, another obstacle thrown in the path of my hero and heroine before they get their Big Happy so I'm mentally (and physically) set up for one final gut-wrenching conflict and instead they try to shove another book down my throat while I'm wondering why I feel shafted.

There's all this talk about a demand for shorter word counts, and publishers finding ways to cut back. Well here's an idea... give those extra words back to the author whose name is emblazoned on the front of the book, or cut out those promo chapters altogether and save a tree or two.

I HATE the Promo Chapter.

It throws off my internal reader pacing. It leads me to believe there's more book coming, and then pulls out unexpectedly, leaving me very unsatisfied. (Yes, it's THAT frustrating.) Now, this may be the one advantage an e-reader has over paper... the digital reader doesn't have the visceral connection to the turning of the pages. To watching the thickness of product slowly but surely switch from the right hand side to the left. The heft and the weight of pages held back first by the thumb and then by the pinkie finger (or vise versa if you're a lefty). The satisfaction of another three / four / five hundred pages devoured, to then be discarded and replaced by a new, equally satisfying weight.

All of that is lost to the digital reader.

What is surely gained, however, is the joy of never again being the victim of the bait and switch set up by the Promo Chapter. No more putting the book down now because you don't have time to read 30 more pages, only to pick it up hours later and discover you had plenty of time to read the five pages that truly signaled the end of the book. No more bringing one book with you to finish in the doctor's office, only to discover nines pages later that you've been gypped and you should have brought the one you were just starting with you instead. No more teeth-grinding when you flip from page 343 to page 344 and see The End when you were expecting to see a new chapter heading instead.

I've read thousands of books in my life. I've read maybe a dozen promo chapters. Probably less. When I get to the end of the story I'm reading, I want that to be very near the end if the pages I'm holding in my hand. A page or two for the publisher to promote upcoming releases, a few of the authors previous or future releases complete with back-cover blurb . . . that's really all that should be back there. A chapter of a story I didn't purchase and can't finish even if I do start reading it is not only wasteful, it's irritating.

When you've set me up (by the sheer volume of pages left to turn) for more story and then leave me hanging, I get pissed. So pissed that I am not going to look favourably upon anything you try and sell me. That's right. I'm already going into it with a bad attitude. Such a bad attitude that 99% of the time I don't even read it at all. In fact, I wish I could rip out those cockteasing pages from the back of the book and use them to line the litterbox. I just have too much respect for the spine of the book to do so.





Just finished: To Have & To Hold
Currently reading: Wolf Tales V
Currently reading: Santa Olivia

Blatant thievery

I read this post from Janet Reid's site.
(Don't get too excited.)

And it led me to this post from Susan Adrian's site.
(I told you not to get excited. It's closed now.)

I composed my short ditty. It was a good one too. It was also twice the required length.

Then I went and read a book and a half.

I came back the next day and edited my epic 100 word novel. It lost two characters, some humor and a whiff of backstory subtlety. I just hope it still makes sense I've cut so many words.

It's now the appropriate length, but, alas, it's too late to enter. So I'm putting my little entry here. And you're all welcome to compose and post your 50 word entries too.

***

Stephen was wearing a tiara. He hated losing bets.

"That thing sure is sparkly." He looked up at his boss.

"Yes sir. I'm testing it for Rhinestones International. Is your response positive or negative?"

"I don't care, princess, just get me one. Roleplaying night is coming up. I'm feeling frisky."

***





Just finished: A Not-So-Perfect Past
Currently reading: Wolf Tales V

I have very few close friends

... but the ones I hold dear are 24k solid gold.

Today I finally put in my notice to move out of my apartment. If you follow this blog at all, and not many of you do, you know that I've been hemming and hawing about getting out of this place for a while now.

Recently, in my life, there have been distractions, and travel, and emotional upheaval. Through all of that, there has been the desire to move on to the next plane of wherever The Great Spaghetti Monster In The Sky decides to take me. But, at the heart of that has also been fear, and procrastination and that awful paralysis suffered by people stuck in the crosshairs crossroads of life.

During the distraction my friends were nowhere to be found. For the most part I didn't tell them what was going on, and we're close enough that we can maintain a solid friendship without living in each others' pockets. During the travel, I was nowhere to be found, and even if you had been able to stick me to a map with a straight pin, I would have wiggled my way free to another destination within days anyway.

But during the emotional upheaval? They stuck to me like the best kind of glue. I could shout, cry, obsess, second-guess myself, challenge them, talk with them and then demand my privacy - and they were still there. And I love them for that.

One really good thing came out of the emotional upheaval however. It was decided that it was time to get off the pot and just fucking move already. So do you know what one friend did? She spent this entire week helping me pack up my life for a final farewell from this apartment and then she accompanied me to the office today to sign the official Notice To Vacate.

She's a moving champ. I'm a moving imbecile. (Apparently you don't put neatly boxed items into another box to move them, they just travel on their own. Who knew?) She stood over me and made me throw away papers. She sat on the bed and folded all of my clothes and then cheered me on when I grudgingly found a way to part with some of them and send them to charity. She did more runs to the garbage and Goodwill with bags full of my crap than I can count and she not only helped me find boxes, she spearheaded the search, then came back to my place with me and wrapped my goods and packed them into said boxes, which she then taped up and labeled and stacked in my living room.

I will admit she's not a total paragon. When faced with my lingerie collection* she might have killed me if she'd been able to get away with it, however by then her forensic evidence was all over the apartment. And she keeps telling me I'm not allowed to buy any more food. But a girl's gotta eat, right? Through it all though, she has maintained her good humor, and patience, and willingness to kick my ass help. She even sat on my computer one night and helped me search for a new place to live while I sat on my couch and shredded my little fingers off.

If I can't find the right place to be in my new city, coincidentally, her city, she and her boyfriend are even willing to put me up while I look. And I made sure she checked with him, and then spoke with him myself to make sure I wasn't treading on toes; he's totally on board. I know a big part of that is because, even when I'm not around, she speaks well of me to him - and really, can you ask for anything more from someone?

She plans to come back and do some more in the up-coming weeks, and my orders are to keep going, even when her eagle eyes are not upon me. With her considerable help, I am feeling less daunted by the whole project. It now seems like something that can be done instead of a feat of impossibility visited upon me by the gods. It's kind of scary, but I think this might be what normal people call "optimism." I am not familiar with the concept, so someone will have to enlighten me.

And she didn't just do this because I asked for her help, she volunteered because she knows me and loves me and wanted to help. She is a goddess among friends. She is a goddess among human beings, even. I cannot thank her enough for all the work that she has done. I offered her a choice between my first and second born child, she said she'll take the first.





Just finished: Nice Girls Don't Have Fangs
Just finished: Bet Me
Just finished: Finger Lickin' Fifteen


*I fully admit right here, right now, that I have an unhealthy fetish for pretty bras combined with matching panties. I know and love every one of my bras, and refuse to give any of them up. Last count hovered somewhere around 50 bras with at least 2 matching or near matching (in colour) panties for each bra.

Next

Now, I mentioned that the dryer died yesterday too. What I didn't mention is that it died in the middle of me washing my sheets, mattress pad and body pillow. Because of this, my mattress is nude, and remained so all night long.

Also, because of this, I elected to sleep on the couch last night. You'll be surprised to learn that I didn't sleep that well. First of all because I was on the couch. Secondly, because of the big ass cup of coffee I'd had earlier that day and thirdly because, hello? Squirrel.

So I woke up with the sun, not long after 6am. I resisted the urge to hop into the bathroom for my morning pee because I hadn't heard the trap snap shut at any point last night. I could, however, still hear the rhythmic squeal and screech of distressed squirrel emanating from the eastern side of my apartment. I turned my head and saw the cat doing that slow motion stalking thing that cats do when there's a bird or mouse-shaped toy nearby. Only she was facing in the wrong direction. When I went to bed last night, the squirrel was trapped in the bathroom, pulling at bits of carpet and knocking over my shampoo. When I got up this morning, apparently the state of the union had changed.

I put both feet on the ground and went to investigate what I feared was going to be a squirrel-led coup, starting with the bathroom and then slowly taking over my life, one room at a time. I was lucky. It wasn't sitting on my uncased pillows lording it over me and the cat with its beady eyes spelling out the terms and conditions of this new dictatorship. It was, however, out of the bathroom. WTF?

*sigh* I look at the bathroom, the door is still shut. I open it. There's the trap, sitting innocent as you please and unsprung on the bathrooom floor. You know what else is on the bathroom floor? The little rug I had left OUTSIDE the bathroom door last night (it usually lives on both sides of the door jamb, providing protection for the carpet there), as well as ample evidence of the squirrel chewing on both the rug and the apartment carpet on its route to escape.

My bathroom floor now is littered with carpet shavings, and the squirrel has won this round. I check the door clearance. When the door is open, there's maybe 2 inches free until it hits the linoleum floor. With the door closed, there's maybe 1 inch of airspace (without the extra rug) between the bottom of the door and the carpet, but apparently, one inch is all some squirrels need.

Now this thing is loose in my bedroom. My worst nightmare. I grab the trap and re-close the bathroom door, hopefully securing it from further invasion. I back myself into the bedroom and see a flash of tail as the squirrel takes refuge behind the desk in the corner of my room. I lay the trap at in front of the desk, knowing it's a useless action as I do so.

I slip into the bathroom, happy to be using it in peace and notice that it doesn't smell like it usually does. Could it really smell like this just from being closed up for 12 hours? That's not right. Then it occurs to me. I'm likely the olfactory victim of Eau de Squirrel Piss. Great. I retrieve a scented candle and put it to work, the cleaning will have to wait until my visitor is gone. Then I retreat to the couch to finish my book and take my mind off things.

I still hear the squirrel squeaking as I read, but I've gotten used to it by now and tune it out. I've also left the balcony door wide open, just in case the little bugger wants to move on to its next conquest. I know I'm not that lucky, but it's 6:30 in the morning and there's nothing left to do.

Maintenance knocks on my door at 8:30am. I thought I'd have to call him, but no, he swung by looking for the full trap I was supposed to leave on the stairs overnight for him to collect. I break the news to him. He takes it like a man.

He says he'll be back with a broom and squirrel-grabber-thingymawhatsit to get this thing out. He returns in minutes and beats the square foot behind the desk with his broom, trying to get some movement. Nothing. Then the poor man has to get down on his hands and knees in my messy bedroom and poke and prod at all the available crevices trying to roust this thing out.

But first he has to move some things, like my oversized teddy bear, a hamper full of clothes and my big bag o' porn. (I thought he was gonna strain a bicep). It's a good thing he doesn't have allergies, or the dustbunnies and cat hair would have laid him out flat. I'm sitting on my naked mattress wondering how many dildoes I have left out in plain sight, he's on the floor searching for rodents. We finally decide it's probably under the bed and he shoves the thingymawhatsit under the bed while I bounce up and down on top of it.

The squirrel flees with a thump and a streak of gray fur.

We abandon the bedroom (I close that door behind me too) and start searching the living and dining room for signs of the intruder. After 5 minutes we decide it's all clear and congratulate ourselves for the well-run execution of our extermination campaign.

Then we remember the dryer, the likely point of entrance for my overnight visitor. Mr Maintenance man gives it a cursory inspection and says he'll be back, but in the meantime, can I clear away the extra clothes so he has full access? Not a problem I say, and start scooping up clothes as soon as he leaves.

It seems I'm not done with the squirrel just yet. I look at the newly cleared space and see my visitor has left behind a scatological calling card. A personal Fuck You for both me and my laundry room floor. Maybe the squirrel had some coffee yesterday too.





Currently reading absolutely nothing.

Irony

I complained about coffee today. Primarily I was irritated at the sudden energy low I was suffering, but one of the other side-effects that got to me was how it sped up my digestive system... forcing things to move that weren't quite ready to git goin' yet. (If you catch my none-too-subtle drift.)

Fast forward to two hours later. I'm sitting in my living room huddled in the comfy chair when I glance across the room where the litter-box sits. There's a squirrel sitting on the mat in front of the box.

I blink.

It's still there.

I blink again.

Yep. That's a squirrel all right.

I live on the second floor, there's a balcony, but I rarely get visitors of the wild kingdom persuasion. In fact, the last time I saw a squirrel on the balcony was about six years ago. It hung out for a minute or two, declared me boring, and then sauntered off. It certainly didn't come inside, help itself to a swathe of my carpet, and make itself at home.

This squirrel? It looked at me with a bored expression and then wandered into the bedroom.

I called apartment maintenance. Lord help us all if that thing gets lost in my bedroom. It could hide in there for weeks without me finding it. Neat I am not. I didn't know what maintenance could actually do about it, frankly I expected them to laugh at me, only to hear that this is the third squirrel invasion this week.

Seriously? It's getting positively Hitchcockian up in here.

So, even though it's about a minute before closing, maintenance agrees to send someone to help me remove the vermin from my apartment. I peeked into the bedroom, looking for a bushy gray tail, I didn't see one, but while I stood in the doorway, I heard a crash from the en suite bathroom. I reached through and quickly pulled the door closed. Then I called the cat. Her favourite place is the bathroom, so there's a chance I just trapped her in there too. But no, she comes running at my call. I roll my eyes. Isn't she supposed to be hunting this thing with whiskers a-twitter and butt a-wagging? Feh. Not my cat. She couldn't care less. In fact, she'd really like to know why I called as she was enjoying a peaceful nap in the closet.

I dismiss her.

Now I know without a doubt that the banging in the bathroom is the four-legged intruder, so at least when maintenance comes we'll know exactly where the squirrel is. As I chat with the office staff, who seem amazed that I actually saw the squirrel with my very own eyes, she mentions that they've been getting in through the dryer vents connected to the roof, and how the apartment complex has never had an infestation like this before. I've been here I long time, so I'm inclined to believe her. I ask her if they had someone working on the roof yesterday, and she says no.

Suddenly it all clicks. It was the squirrel I heard rummaging around up there yesterday. It was the squirrel I heard scratching in the walls yesterday afternoon (that I assumed was my neighbour drawing on the walls or something), and it was the squirrel I heard squeaking rhythmically yesterday morning when I assumed it was ceiling-fan motor dying. *le sigh* In fact, it's likely the squirrel is responsible for the death of the dryer I had reported to maintenance a mere hour before Squirrel Sighting '09.

Maintenance came and left a peanut-butter laced trap in my bathroom. That was at 6pm. It's after 9 now. In a 50 sq ft room, the trap has not yet sprung. Why? I suspect it's because this same squirrel has been caught twice before by the evil lure of peanut butter, and knows better now. Even more amusing? I have two bowls of water in there left out for my indifferent cat. So the squirrel can probably survive for quite a while.

What does any of this have to do with irony?
Because of the coffee I maligned so callously only a few hours before, I had taken care of all my ablutionary needs long before the squirrel hijacked my bathroom. I've had to pee only once since the door closed between us, and I braved the bathroom as any woman would - with my toes hovering in the air, and a wipe as fast as any gun in the west. The squirrel sat behind the toilet screeching and trilling at me, which I think is the squirrel equivalent of a snake's rattle or a dog's growl. I feared at any moment it would launch itself at my ass and hang on until I shook it off somewhere outside my front door. It did not.

Having survived that single incident unscathed, I won't be eating or drinking anything more tonight. God bless coffee.





Currently reading: The Graveyard Book

Why does coffee have a down side?

I love me some coffee.

I'm not an addict or anything. I don't have to have it every day, I don't need it to open my eyes in the morning, but when I do imbibe I love the rush it gives me. I love it smooth over my tongue, mellowed by half & half. I love it sugared enough to take the bitterness away and give my sweet tooth a tickle.

I love that it gets me off my backside and buzzing gently around the house taking care of things I've ignored for too long. I love that it props my brain up, knocking the internal switch into productive mode out of my normally contemplative neutral.

I like the way it smells and even though I'm 37 years old, this year is the first year I've invested in a coffee-maker of my own. In fact, this is the first time I've ever lived with such a machine. I've learned that I prefer the bold, smokey blends over the wimpy, medium roasts boasting of fruity undertones and summery notes. I enjoy all prep of measuring and grinding beans and flipping the switch to bring an instant perk of happiness to my nose and tongue.

And all of this is not even taking into account the coffeehouse coffees. I started with Mochas, the gateway drug of Starbucks. But I'm not one of those people who is menu monogamous where the staff knows your order as well as you do. Not me. I'm a caffeine slut. From day to day I don't know if I'll have a latte, or a cappuccino, if I'll add raspberry or vanilla or shake in the sugar packets myself. And lest you think it's just the coffee, I should mention that I have a long-standing affair with Earl Grey tea going back to my adolescence.

I'm the woman you hate. You're at the back of the line thinking, "just order your fucking coffee already and get out of my way." And I'm at the front of the line rubbing my hands with glee at the smorgasboard of caffeinated delights in front of me. The line behind me has faded into the background as I realize it's time to commit (if only for today) to a mighty taste sensation served up with a fake smile by a bored barrista.

I went for years without drinking the stuff. It's hell on your bones you know. As my sister says, "you might as well be pissing away your calcium." And I've always fully recognized that it's a drug, thus, my goody-two-shoes self used it as such. If I was in dire straits some grad school night and needed to finish a paper and prep a presentation for the next day, I'd turn to coffee to get me through. One cup would do the job for the entire evening. Yes, I was that much of a lightweight. The rest of the time I'd eschew caffeine in favour of a bright, happy Sprite or nice, earthy rootbeer.

But why does coffee have to have a down side? Why does it have to have such a ... ahem ... "stimulating" effect on my digestive system? Why does the high have to wear off so suddenly? Why is it that the sudden spike of energy drops away like a stone only hours after ingestion leaving me wrung out and blinking in whole notes, yet the half-life of the caffeine continues to keep me awake well into the wee hours of the night?

Why, coffee? Why???





Just finished: Dead As a Doornail
Currently reading: The Graveyard Book

A side-note on supporting characters

I've been reading a few category books lately. In terms of satisfaction, they tend to be hit and miss, especially as so many of them are series that I either unwittingly (and unwillingly) find myself in the middle of, or find myself at the beginning of with no desire to hunt down the rest.*

But that's a discussion for another day - April 11th to be precise. What I really want to talk about is the true role of a SUPPORTING character.

I'm reading a book right now that has six rather major supporting characters. I know them all by name. And I know them all by how they relate to the main characters. That is ALL I know about them. This is something that I really appreciate about this book. If we've been told anything about what they look like, it's only a sentence, maybe two. We know nothing of their hopes, dreams, aspirations, how they grew up, or what informs their personalities.

They are fully fleshed-out, 3D characters who clearly have more depth than we are shown on the page, but that depth is revealed in their interactions with the main characters, and only in those interactions. Not in long introductions about why they are who they are, not in sidebars told info-dump style about how the H or H met them or who their spouses are or even in meandering soliloquies out of the supporting characters' mouths themselves. No, we see exactly who these people are through the well-chosen words that leave their mouths and through how their actions (or lack thereof) affect the main characters.

I'm only halfway through this book, it could tank in the second half, but somehow I doubt that's going to happen. The author is clearly a gifted story-teller and her long list of publishing credits indicate that she's been at this for a while. In fact she just threw in a twist that was so beautifully set-up I am aching to know if she's a pantser or a plotter, and if she knew she was going to have to throw in a test like this, or if it came to her in a dream or she reverse engineered it because something in the characters was telling her to dig deeper. But I'm digressing again, back to the supporting characters.

Now, one of the things that may be helping this along is that I don't feel like I'm being set up for a sequel. Sometimes these things are inevitable, and oftentimes they're heavy-handed, but I have faith in the author that this book will have everything wrapped up in a nice, neat bow for me by the time I hit the HEA Epilogue, which means her supporting characters are just that. Supporting. They're not making their debut before they take the stage themselves. They don't have to steal a single scene to whet our appetite for their own stories.

These supporters of her main characters show up to reveal the strengths, weaknesses, flaws, and qualities in our H & H. Isn't that really what a supporting character is supposed to be about? Not a single one of them is "perfect," or "zany," or "sassy." They're just real-life people in our H & H's real-life world that make things better, and worse, and challenging, and fulfilling. And, even more than that, we get to see how Heroine reacts to Hero's supporting characters, and then challenges him on being a better person with them ... and then, vice versa. It's almost, like, I don't know, a real relationship or something.

I'm going to head back to my cozy bed and finish the book now. I hope the author didn't get sticken with a deathly case of The Tropes before she finished the book. Somehow, I have a feeling she'll retain her refreshing style 'til the end and once again I'll be properly schooled on That's How You Tell A Story!

Wish me luck.





Currently reading: No Rest For the Wicked
Currently reading: Mother In the Making
Currently reading: Practice Makes Perfect


*[See IRONY: The book I'm writing right now is the first of a two-book category-length series. Cross ref:- HYPOCRISY]

I took some advice today

From you - from all of you.

I hit up my local Barnes & Noble and wrote. Despite not "feeling like it," despite feeling poorly today, and despite the output from my pen stinking up the place like week-old carrion.

I have been treating my writing like a hobby lately. I've had a lot of things on my plate (who hasn't?) and allowed Novel #2 to limp along on its own steam. I've added a paragraph or two here and there. I've done some typing when the spirit moves me, but the cussedness and enthusiasm that got me through the first book and through 3/4s of this one is long gone.

Instead I've been paying fantastic lip service to my 'writing' and not doing any of the work involved. Oh, I've been reading the blogs from reviewers and editors and agents and other authors, but learning about the business doesn't equal being in the business. And not a single bit of all the things I've learned is going to help me if I don't finish the book.

So today, I sat down and got to work. And the writing wasn't good. It wasn't good at all. But I did it anyway, because every professional writer out there says sometimes you just gotta work through the crap, you have to give yourself permission to let the words flow regardless of how awful those words are.

Now, in revision, these words may get cut, or I may find a germ of an idea in them that begs to be explored, or it could just be the invisible emotional glue needed to bind one tense scene to another and I'll get to leave it alone, crap and all. But the point is, I put the words on the page. Finally.

I'm declaring a moratorium on emotional turmoil (as if I have control over these things), it just detracts from my goals. From now on, it's boring, hum-drum, everyday, work-a-day, finish the effing book for me. I'm also working on moving.

I'm a Cancer. I like my safe, comfortable hermit-like world. As a result I have been in my apartment for over nine years and have packed it full of things that make me feel like my life is full. And now I have to dismantle it all and pack up my life to shift it 100 miles north. I like being lazy better, but, turns out, lazy doesn't get the job done. Kind of like writing.





Just finished: Legend
Just finished: Dad in Disguise
Currently reading: No Rest For The Wicked

*Deeeeeeep breath*

That felt good.

I made a mistake last month. I put down my pen.

Now, admittedly, I was on vacation, and - as mentioned before - I find it really hard to work (at writing) while on vacation. I managed to scribble out a couple of pages during an hour spent alone up in the Redwood forests of Santa Cruz, but that was the last thing I did for over 30 days.

You see, I'd already been distracted before I left town. I had fallen off of my productivity wagon, but I still had enough gumption to get out there at least once a week and get some work done, whether it was typing, editing, or finishing this mother-effing book that despite my best efforts refuses to conform to category length.

Then, when I returned to town, a full two weeks later, my life fell apart. Not in any way I'm willing to share with the world (also known as the four people who occasionally read this blog), but in a real and measurable way anyway. Would that my life were a romance script. The knight on his white horse would have swooped in to the rescue a good two weeks ago. Alas, the real world ain't that pretty.

It's been a tough time and I've had to make some hard as hell decisions about who I am and what I expect of the people around me and life in general. It doesn't help that I've always been a cerebral type girl and can think myself into dizzying circles with very little assistance from the outside world. It also doesn't help that I'm unemployed and have nothing to distract me from my over-active brain. Basically I have all the time in the world to stew, and fret, and worry my pretty little head into a tizzy. And I have taken full advantage of it.

I've been so anxious that getting a full night's sleep has become a rarity. Four hours is the norm, then it's up and at 'em to fret some more. I've still been reading - though not as much. My Sudoku habit has become outrageous, but it's a great way to not think when you're awake anyway. And I've been reading about writing on a few blogs and such (I was 800 posts behind by the time I got back to my blogs, I'm down to 365 posts now). Still absorbing the "rules," still reading the publishing stories... but I haven't written a lick.

I could have. If I'd just sat down and done it, I would have found the words waiting for me, and I would have been happier for it. If nothing else it would have taken my mind off of my problems. More than that I would have taken refuge in the natural joy I find in the simple act of creation. But because I couldn't concentrate on anything else, I assumed I wouldn't be able to concentrate on my work either, so I didn't even try.

This morning, however, I woke up and was granted a small ray of hope that all this turmoil would soon be gone. That short moment was enough. I started thinking about other things again and then tried to remember the last time I left the house just for fun. I couldn't. I went out for a job interview on Thursday, but before that...? Ummmm...? Sad. Really sad.

So, me and my fresh new attitude grabbed my purse and keys and walked the hell out the door. I went to Chili's for ribs and took a book with me and my notebook too, just in case the writing bug was ready to bite me again. It did. Thank God. My characters were waiting for me, my pen was still speaking to me and I even stopped at Krispy Kreme on the way home. I got over 1000 words written this afternoon and damn it felt good.

I'm a writer, what the hell did I think I was doing putting down my pen for so long? I won't do that to myself again. It's back on the horse for me.





Just finished: The Bachelor's Stand-In Wife
Just finished: Agnes and The Hitman
Just finished: Smooth Talkin' Stranger
Currently reading: D is for Deadbeat
Currently Reading: Tempting The Beast

The Subject Matters

I read many blogs. I enjoy most of them, some of them I slog through because I feel like they're important for me to read, but there is one that has been on my mind a lot because I fear ever producing like this myself.

You see, this blog-writer touches on a variety of subjects, but everything she has to say about every one of them is a complaint. I feel obliged to read this blog, I shan't tell you why, but as the months go by, I find that time spent reading her a chore.

Now, don't get me wrong. This blog-writer has a wonderful voice. She is very witty, she uses metaphors and similes like a pro, she incorporates appropriate pictures that are usually visually stimulating. But I hate going there anyway. Why? Because she always brings me down.

If you were writing her into a novel she would be the well-meaning sister or best friend who looks at you wide-eyed with a smile on her face as she asks you if you really want to wear that skirt? Aren't you trying to make a good impression? Subtle enough to seem 'friendly' while still cutting you off at the knees.

It's like listening to a stereotypical Jewish mother all day long. If there is anything good or joyful to be found in the world, this blog-writer will spin it in a way that somehow chaps her hide. We all have our petty complaints, we all have reason enough for them, and some of us have some major reasons to be miserable and could drown the world in our (valid) sorrows. But most of us choose to count our blessings.

There is an importance in looking at the world with clear eyes, ripping the veil of Happy Happy Joy Joy off the patina of life, and facing the world in a realistic way. It's part of growing up. It's also an important part of life to recognize that the joys of childhood were primarily provided by our ignorance.

But maturity? That comes in letting go of the bad things you can't change and making peace with the few happinesses any of us are given ... then savouring them.





Just Finished: Vengeance In Death
Just Finished: This Pen For Hire
Currently Reading: Tempting The Beast
Currently Reading: Pleasure Unbound
Currently Reading: Burning Wild
Currently reading: The Watson Brothers

Did I fall off the face of the earth?

No.
I've been roaming it.

In the past two weeks I have been to six cities. Now, it may seem like less when you consider that one of them was me coming back home for three days, but it was only for three days. Enough time for me to rest, do my laundry and realize that there was no point in putting anything in the fridge because I was going to be gone again shortly.

It all culminated last night in an eleven plus hour, eyeball-searing drive back from Vegas to Tucson via Sedona. I stopped for about 45mins to change cars and then it was on the road again. 100+ temperatures were my constant road companion and thank God the MP3 player never failed me once. Sadly, the GPS did fail me once or twice, but we were back to being friends again by the end of the trip.

My family came to the States and in return for paying my way I was the chauffeur (plus, you know, they kinda love me). We hit San Jose, CA and Santa Cruz, CA, then back to SJ. Then it was off to San Francisco for a week - where I am SO pleased I didn't have to drive. That traffic! Also, we hired a car to take us from SJ to SF as we were warned that parking at our hotel was $53 / night. Beg pardon?!

Then it was on the plane, back home for three days. I know I left the house at least once, because there was no food here and I had to eat, but aside from that, I don't remember much of my return here except I exchanged the big suitcase for the small one.

After that, I joined a different family member in Sedona (3+ hour drive) for a night of fine dining, then we arose bright and shiny on Tuesday morning (all right, all right, it was 10am, but that still counts as morning) to eat a sensible breakfast, add me to the rental car agreement and drive to Vegas where we saw two shows on our 1 1/2 nights there.

Aside: Jersey Boys gets a big, fat HELL YEAH!, O was a spectacle of gymnastics, costuming, waterworks and optical distractions, but there was no emotional involvement - stunningly beautiful, yes, but I didn't leave the show raving and satisfied like I did with Jersey Boys.

A whirlwind stop in Vegas included very fine dining at Morels, shopping off-strip at The Galleria at Sunset (I was underwhelmed) and a two night stay at the incomparable Bellagio. None of that left me prepared to drive back for eleven plus hours yesterday though.

It was recommended that after the first 6 hours I stop in Sedona and stay at a motel. It's six hours because the first part of the driving experience that day was taking the fam. to the airport, and the second part of the driving experience involved getting lost.

Now, I mentioned earlier how my GPS and I were fighting on the trip, so when we got out of the airport, I didn't trust that she was telling me the truth. I blithely went on my way, ignoring her admonitions to turn around at every exit. I knew better.

I did not know better.

Fifteen minutes later, out of the hustle and bustle of the city I thought ... perhaps she has a point ... and decided to believe her. Wouldn't you know it? She stopped arguing with me and suddenly all the roadsigns made sense. I hate it when she's right. (Actually, I love it when she's right, I rely on her being right. I just hate it when she's righter than I.)

All that folderol added a stressful hour to my five hour drive back to return the rental car and pick up my vehicle. Most sane people would have put some value on their life, or at least limb, and stopped in Sedona to get a good rest, maybe even a meal, or sit off somewhere to revel in the joy of not driving. I, however, did a jig at the sight of my little, red car waiting for me in the parking lot of the Sedona Hilton and hopped in to fuel up and drive the 3 hours 49 minutes home.

At this point you're thinking, 'but she said it was an eleven hour drive?' To which I must add the 45 minutes it took to check in the vehicle and have the nice Hertz Rent A Car guy drive me back to my car. In addition, peeing and gas breaks must be totaled in to every long distance driving experience.

By the time I hit my apartment door my brain was mush. I could not form words, and every attempt at a coherent sentence was a joke. It didn't matter though. I was finally home. In MY own bed, with my own cat and even my own earplugs. Heaven.

I think I was asleep within 20 minutes of hitting the door. Within 30 minutes, I was receiving and (stupidly) replying to text messages. That was all it took to wake my brain back up. Four hours later I finally took a sleeping pill to coax my brain back into its blissful catatonic state. It only took another hour for my body to get the message and I slept 10 solid hours last night.

Today, I didn't drive at all.






Just Finished: Deeper
Just Finished: Gotcha!
Just Finished: A Weaver Wedding
Just Finished: The Family He Wanted
Just Finished: A Night At The Operation
Just Finished: Dead To The World
Just Finished: Wild Rain
Currently Reading: Pleasure Unbound
Currently reading: The Watson Brothers
Currently Reading: Gone With The Nerd
Currently Reading: Naughty Little Secret
Currently Reading: Burning Wild
Currently Reading: Undead and Unreturnable

Distractions, Distractions Everywhere...

(and not a drop to drink)

I'd like to blame my lack of writing progress on the last two weeks' worth of distractions - I really, really would, because it has been a humdinger of a time for distractions. Really. My reading has fallen off, my writing has fallen off and other things have taken precedence in my life. Sometimes that's just how the world works.

But I can't blame it all on outside forces. The biggest reason for my lack of progress has been a massive internal block. It's not writer's block. I refuse to succumb to that. I think of it more as character block.

I've said time and again that I am a pantser and thus rely on my characters to help me move my story forward. I have also mentioned, more than once, that the closer I get to the end of the book, the more difficult it is for me to finish. (I'm using the data from my vast experience of writing two books.) But this book is killing me.

You see, I'm also a fairly linear writer. I start at the beginning and write until the end. This time I started with what I thought was a prologue, but 120 pages in, I realized I could fit the same information into the story and inform both the reader and the hero about that awful night at the same time, so I moved that chunk of story back. Technically though, it still took place at the beginning of the story, and I did write it first, so no big deal.

But ending this book is kicking my ass. I hit the minor black moment and moved forward from that, thinking I knew where H&H were going to end up and how they were going to get there. But as I wrote the resolution from that minor moment, my hero was so distraught and so sincere that I realized, crap, he's writing the ending. I still have more things to work through and this sap is writing the ending!

So, I found a point a few hours before that, and took them on a detour, keeping my unplanned ending as is, but adding in other resolutions before that place in time. I thought I had it all planned out--a completely wrong epiphany, a big reveal, a shot of ugly jealousy and BAM, I'd get my major black moment.

But as I'm writing in the big reveal, I realize that H&H need another love scene to bring their commitment and intimacy to a head. Crap. That was unplanned. Not that I really plan anything, but in my head, I know the high and low points they're going to hit on their way to the final destination. At no point did I foresee them making whoopee in her mom's house. Regardless of my plans, that's what the story needed, so I started writing it.

*sigh* Wouldn't you know it? It's my hero AGAIN. Jesus, he's a shit. I'm writing the love scene and he's just not in it. He's already consumed with jealousy before I've written the part where the true jealousy starts. He's not performing, he's just showing up. So now, this unplanned love scene gets pushed back to add in the completely planned moment of jealousy... that wasn't supposed to happen until the next day.

What ever happened to nice, orderly pantser writing? Whatever happened to starting a story and just finishing it? Noooo, these lot are killing me. It's supposed to be category length and by the time these two fools are done messing around in my brain it'll have another 50 pages added on because he can't get his shit together long enough to tell me what he needs until AFTER he needs it.

I'd love to blame my lack of progress on the world outside of me, but it's the world inside of me that's to blame. And that's the world I'm in charge of. Damnit.





Currently reading: The Watson Brothers
Currently reading: Gone With the Nerd
Currently reading: Nauti Dreams
Currently reading: A Hunger Like No Other
Currently reading: Family Blessings

Milk The Moment

An agent visited our RWA last year. It was my first agent talk and I soaked up everything she said, then promptly forgot about 75% of it. That's the way my brain works. One of the things that stuck though was the notion of letting your reader suffer along with your character.

Now, as romance readers, most of us don't like too much nasty graphic violence, but we love our angst. Sure we want to revel in the love felt between our H&H, but, as readers, we really don't like it when we get too much happy. No one wants to read perfect and no one wants to read happy. We want to read angst. That's what keeps us turning the pages.

For those of us struggling to get published, there's a worry about overwriting. A worry about repeating yourself. And sometimes this manifests in writing such "spare & precise" prose that the reader doesn't get the chance to truly sink into the depths of the feeling with the characters. Instead the author hits on the moment, shows the action and reaction and then moves straight into the next bit of plot that officially "advances the story."

Now I'm definitely not the one to sit here and advocate boring your reader, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I read three books recently that took my emotions and wrung them dry by hovering on the edge of hyperawareness without repeating themselves. Lucky you, I'm gonna tell you about them.

*WARNING - to talk about these moments I will have to reveal spoilers. Sorry.*

1. The first one, the one that inspired this post, was Morning Glory by LaVyrle Spencer.
In this book the hero gets called off to war - WWII to be specific. He does his duty, heads off to Marine bootcamp and then writes his heroine about what life is like there.

Ms Spencer spends eight (hardback) pages writing letters back and forth between our hero and heroine while he's in boot camp. They had just discovered their love for each other before he left, and we already ache that they've been pulled apart at this delicate stage of their relationship. So the letters start. The real brilliance in these letters is how self-sacrificing each is in regards to the others' feelings. They both pretend to be happy and adjusting to their separation. And as a reader, we see right through it and know they're suffering.

He ends almost every letter to her with some variation of don't worry about me at all, I'm doing just fine. A sure sign of how much he's missing her, and how bad it is there.

Then, Ms Spencer gets them together for a full chapter. And the reader rejoices along with them. But he's changed because he's a Marine now, and they have to readjust to each other all over again for the minute they have. Then it's back to the letters. Another ten pages, but this time he's headed off to war.

The reader is on a precipice. There's no male or female POV. It's just their fear and hesitation and hope and awkwardness laid out on the page in their falsely happy letters to one another. Brilliant.

2. The second one was C is For Corpse by Sue Grafton. This was so well done, I could barely stand to read it. But it's also something that maybe only works with a Dead Tree (as opposed to e) book.

In this instance, the book was nearing the end. There physically weren't many pages left to turn. But we don't know who the murderer is yet. And our heroine is going about life and exploration at the same pace as she always does, the same pace she's kept throughout the rest of the book. There's no hurrying up to the big finish.
Instead she checks something out, explores it, explains it to herself... spends some time wandering around, figuring things out... and this whole time the reader is on tenterhooks because we KNOW the Bad Guy is gonna get her.

She doesn't know. There's barely a hint of foreshadowing, but the book is ending, and he's gonna get her, and she's not paying attention. For pages and pages she did her thing, and as a reader it was the most mundane, tension-filled writing I've ever killed myself over. (I had a teacher once call this Dramatic Irony, but that was a screenwriting class and I don't know if it applies to novels.) By the time the Bad Guy attacked, it was a relief, but I can't fault the author for even a sentence of that mundane moseying the heroine did. I've never been so riveted to a scene.

3. The third book to milk the moment was Fire & Ice by Anne Stuart.
In this book, the heroine kills a bad guy, violently. She's never killed before, she sees the aftermath of her actions and shuts down. But the trick is, she doesn't just shut down for a paragraph or two.

We're taken into the hero's POV and we watch her walking catatonia as he experiences it. She becomes completely docile, does everything she's told without question or argument. But she doesn't connect and she doesn't speak. She goes inside herself to a place the hero can't reach and stays there all day. A day that we spend with her.

We see him go through sympathy, and worry and fear on her behalf. We watch him take care of her, protect her, feed her and finally get angry with her until the end of the day when things come to a head in an explosive love scene.

The love scene wouldn't have had nearly the same effect if she had killed, gone silent for a paragraph or two, then cried, and accepted it. Instead we had to suffer through it along with her and as a result rejoiced with her when it ended.


There are so many ways to let your reader experience it, and sometimes we edit ourselves right out of the good stuff. We can't be afraid to dig deep, and then maybe a bit deeper. Rushing the story is NOT the same as advancing the story.

I can only hope when I hit the emotional lows in my writing that I spend enough time wallowing in the mud.





Currently reading: The Watson Brothers
Just finished: Rescued by the Sheik
Just finished: Fire & Ice

[ETA, I felt free to name names in this post, because all the comments were complimentary. I would not have done so if I were structurally criticizing an author's work.]

Consider the source

I went to boarding school in Canada for two years. I learned a lot about myself. It could just be cause I was at the age to learn things about me (17-19) but I'm sure the atmosphere of boarding school had a lot to do with it as well.

I made a few good friends while I was there. One of whom, miraculously, has continued to speak to me all these years later. I came to boarding school with a widely misplaced sense of esteem. There are some things people just grow up knowing about themselves, and I was one of those rare kids who knew that I had a right to my own thoughts and choices, and didn't need to be ashamed of myself.

I'm not saying I was preternaturally confident, I had plenty angst to keep me crying in my teenage pillows, it's just that almost all of my self-hatred and lack of confidence came directly from within and wasn't delivered to me on the tongues of Mean Girl nemeses.

This means a few things when you're a teenager. Basically it means that nothing anyone says can hurt me more than I can hurt myself, and it also means that nothing anyone says can make me feel better about myself, because I wasn't really factoring in their opinion in the first place. My friend was not so lucky.

My friend lived on the edge of public opinion. "She hates me. You should have heard what she said about me. She's awful."
"What do you care?" I'd ask. "She's awful and you don't like her anyway. Why do you care if she hates you?"
This sort of reasoning was as clear to my teenage mind as it is to my adult one. I talked her off the ledge of Other People's Opinionitis more times than I can recall. It's probably because we grew up in different cultures, but also because I was a "sensible young woman" long before I was a woman at all. After all, I had many years of romance reading under my belt by the time boarding school hit.

But boarding school is also the place where I understood fully, for the first time, the phrase: Consider the source.

"Consider the source" got us through a lot of those teenaged chats, and has gotten me into a lot of trouble as an adult. I painstakingly took the time, every week, twice a week, daily if necessary, to remind her to consider the source.

.Mary is a spoiled rich kid who has hated you for years, and you've hated her too. If she is the one saying that Dan thinks you're ugly, do you really think her opinion can be trusted? Consider the source here.
.Mrs Hollister is a new teacher who has only seen you get bad grades because you hate calculus and calculus hates you. Her suggestion that you take tutoring doesn't mean she thinks you're a moron, it just means that she hasn't seen you shine in different arenas. Consider the source.
.Liz picked you last for the softball team. But you hate softball, and Liz loves it. Plus she tried to steal your boyfriend last month. Why would you care if she doesn't want you on her team? Consider the source.

As an adult, "Consider the source" gets me into trouble with employers. Once the respect is gone, I have a hard time believing a word you say, much less wanting to work hard for you. But that's not the point of this post.

The actual point of this post is Writing Workshops. My local RWA forwards about twenty opportunities for workshops to my e-mail per week. I have never signed up for one. I'm often curious, and sometimes I'm all the way over into intrigued . . . but I never sign up. You know why? Because I consider the source.

There are so many How to Write workshops and books and seminars and opportunities to separate you from your money. I've read a few of the books, I'm sure I'll read a few more (I have one in my library TBR right now) but as I age, I am much more conscious of who is providing this material.

Do I want to read the How Tos of someone who never actually has? Sparkling Dialogue in Ten Easy Steps written by someone who's never published and whose writing bores me. How To Write a Kick Ass Query presented by someone who published one book ten years ago. Marketing for Writers sold to me by someone I've never heard of.

Since entering the blogosphere I have come across fantastic gems on writing by sources that actually hold credence for me. Published authors, the ones who are making a living at it, will share what they have learned. They usually just don't have time to sit down and organize seminars and take in and grade the unfocused meanderings of twenty students every month while working on their own craft. They also, usually, don't have time to sit down, deconstruct their own brains and put together a book on how to write. But they'll still share what they can when they can. I appreciate those table scraps more than they'll ever know.

In the meantime, I pick up most of my tips on writing from reading. Reading published books, reading what authors have to say about their process, reading what reactions other readers have to good and bad books alike and reading how reviewers approach both praise and criticism. But no matter what, I always, ALWAYS consider the source.





Currently reading: The Watson Brothers
Currently reading: Wild Rain
Just finished: Club Dead

What an unexpectedly crazy busy week!

I haven't kept up with any of my usual things.

My Google Reader is overflowing with unread posts. My blog has dust and leaves blowing through it, and all of my good house-cleaning intentions have gone the way of the Dodo. Most telling of all is that fact that for two days there, I wasn't reading anything! I usually read a few books at a time, and suddenly didn't have the space in my life to even pick up one.

On the other hand, I have been having fun and being productive in other parts of my life. I really am not designed to do it all. Something always gets the short shrift.

This week I met up with an old friend who was in town for an evening, and made new friends with his buddies as well as five dogs and six horses, one of which tried to eat my boob. I have been sick, again, but only mildly. The amateur diagnoses range from Kennel Cough to Drug-Resistant Tuberculosis. It got to the point where I even pulled out my immunization card ... but I knew if the conversation stayed on me any longer, I'd be diagnosed with SARS or swine-flu in a heartbeat. (really, it's just a cough)

I also made considerable time in my schedule to go to one of the worst job fairs ever. There were somewhere between 15 and 20 booths in a conference room. Half the attendees weren't accepting resumes. I mean, really? At a job fair? And half the attendees who were accepting resumes, but you could tell they were going to be filed under G, because they told you to go to the web site and apply there.

Then there was a strong showing my Army, Naval Reserves, Fire Department and the Dept of Corrections. Great if you're a strapping 18 year old wondering what to do with your brains and brawn. Not so great for a 36 year old "well-padded" woman who has limited tolerance for being told what to do.

It was not a good job fair.

I did get complimented by my husband on how good I looked in my monkey suit. I think he's just shocked whenever I wear make-up and clothes that have been tailored.

And the book thing resolved itself too - last night at 4:00am - I couldn't get to sleep and finally picked up a book and read until 5, when the sun started to come up and my lashes started to go down.

Today was a bust. I spent almost 6 hours trying to get to sleep last night so I could be up and attentive for a 9am meeting. A meeting I wasn't even sure I wanted to attend because I wasn't being paid for my time and the company sounds like a sham. But I made it to the meeting, and after half an hour I knew this wasn't the place for me to be. A few polite exchanges later I was "excused" from the event and rushed back home to reclaim that sleep, but by then, the caffeine that I'd ingested to make it through said meeting had already hit my system.

Ugh. So I was exhausted, irritated, caffeinated, and grudgingly awake.
My minor illness came to my rescue (the swine flu I don't have) and I took a small hit off a bottle of generic Nyquil while I finished the novella I started last night. 7 blissful hours later I'm awake and functioning again - but the day? It was a total bust.

Oh, and another reason I've fallen behind? So You Think You Can Dance has started for 2009. I am a total and unapologetic addict. So a lot of my time has been devoted to that as well.





Currently reading: The Watson Brothers
Just finished: Talk Me Down