Write on, Sister
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Glue YOUR BUTT
TO THE CHAIR

The ups and downs, small victories and major setbacks of trying to get your first book published. There will be laughter, tears and all that good stuff.

SAMPLE BOOK CHAPTERS

I can't write when I'm reading, so ...

4/23/2017

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Wow. Only two months since my last post. That, my friends, is progress.
About eight months ago, I joined an online women's fiction critique group. Once a month, a member submits their work and the rest of us read and give feedback. The polite and proper thing to do is to return that favor and critique those kind souls who have given your work a read.
I'm trying to do the polite and proper thing but it takes up a lot of time. The good news is I finally figured out how to get the word documents on to my Kindle Fire so that makes the reading easier and I'm more mobile ... not chained to the Word application on my computer.
So, I just finished my critique that's not due until May 6th, AND just emailed my thoughts on a swap read with another woman in the group. I was fully committed to reading over the last few days (when I wasn't binge watching "Last Tango in Halifax." I may have a bit of a British TV addiction. Don't judge.)
I'm also half the way through "The Curious Charms of Arthur Pepper" ... a novel of an elderly English gentleman who finds a charm bracelet belonging to his late wife and discovers each charm has a story that reveals much about her he didn't know. After that, I'm dying to read "Jane Steele." I peeked at the first chapter and it has its hooks in me already. A woman has committed a murder and she has a deep affinity for the title character in "Jane Eyre" (a novel I read once a year).
I also ordered "As I Lay Dying," as an attempt to get my feet wet in the waters of William Faulkner. My granddad was a big fan of Faulkner and I'm embarrassed to say I've never read him. Rumour has it he's damned hard to wade through but worth it in the end, so after googling "what's the best Faulkner to start with", I feel ready to push forward.
But for today, I'm putting the reading aside to concentrate on what I really love ... the writing. I simply can't write when someone else's voice is in my head. Now that the weather is nicer, I think I'll take a bike ride on the trail beside the Yellow River. If I forego my headphones, I can think about the book as I pedal. It's a nice palette cleanser for my brain, as it were. I can flush out those other voices and be ready to write when I get back home.
It's funny ... you tell some folks you've written a book and they immediately assume they can run out to Barnes and Noble to pick up a copy. What they don't realize, and what I'm learning, is that the writing is the easy/fun bit. The rest is an exhausting process of editing, rewriting, querying, rejection, more querying, conferences, feedback, and then if you're lucky, an agent, and then if you're really lucky, a publisher ... and then a new round of edits/rewrites/feedback.
I know it's a business. I get that. I write because I've discovered what so many before me knew -- you write because you love it. Would I like to be published ... give readings ... go 'round to signings? You betcha. But Anne Lamont told me in her book "Bird by Bird", that you better do this because you love it, because you're never going to be published and you're never going to make money at it. Harsh words, perhaps, but it just means anything good that happens is gravy. If you love something, I don't think you can ever go wrong. In fact, it's the best reason I can think of for trying to get this right.
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Alert the media! I'm writing a post ... haha

2/21/2017

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So ... I've been out of my mind busy, trying to edit and do rewrites on my second book before the Atlanta Writer's Conference in May. I paid an editor in New York City (Brooklyn to be precise) a not unsubstantial amount of money to edit it for me, and since she is a former literary agent, I took most of her suggestions to heart.
While she had my manuscript (and while I waited the six months for her to have an opening in her schedule), I began co-writing a book with my dear friend, Mark, who lives in the UK. I've mentioned him a time or two in this blog.
Let me try and sound British for a moment: He's bloody brilliant.
He's whip smart and a brilliant writer, just perhaps not as prone to sit down and keep at it as me. In any event, we've created two, I think, amazing characters: Eva and Keaton. But I've had to put them aside to work on my rewrites of The Fifty-Week Wife.
But, as often happens with characters, they become all too real to you, and I missed them. So I had to take a break and read a bit of the work in progress last night.
Mind you, it's first draft stuff. This is very near the end of the book. But it made me happy to visit. The book is called Whatever Words I Say
Cheers

*******

I stared at the images in front of me. Though so different from the scenes of global grandeur I’d seen back at the cottage, they were just as breathtaking.


A sparrow pecking at gravel in the garden.

The shadow play of my lashes against my cheek as I lay sleeping.

A coffee cup, half in the frame, with rumpled bedclothes in soft focus in the background.

A rusty metal wheel against a weathered wall at the back of the cottage.

Keaton’s reflection in a mirror, hazy and cut off by the edge of the photo.

My fingers drummed along the top of the table as my mind tried to hone in on a idea that was swirling in my brain.
I spent the next hour pacing along the length of the table, picking up this photo, then that one and giving each a harder look. Still my thoughts spiraled into nothingness.

Next, I taped them to the opposite wall to offer myself a different perspective.
Flopping on the couch, I sat, arms behind head, feet on the coffee table and stared. Then I stared some more. I think I may have blinked. Argghhh. What was I even hoping for? He left me these for a reason. It had to be more than to show me he was attempting to be a photographer again? He could have easily told me that and shown me the images in person.
Why the envelope? Why the admonition not to open it until he had left? What did he want from me?
Running my fingers through my hair, I sighed in frustration.
My thoughts began to wander like a restless child. I should really repaint this room. When was the last time I dusted? Is that clock off?
My eyes travelled over to my bookshelf and as soon as I saw it, I knew.
Keaton’s book.
I jumped off the couch as though it were red hot. But I was the one on fire. I grabbed the book and opened it to the first photograph. The image was burned in my brain from having seen it countless times, but the words … Alex’s words … I’d only given them a glance. I was so besotted with Keaton’s language that I didn’t need anyone else’s. But he needed Alex’s words. He needed them and now he doesn’t have them.
Could I give words back to him?

For the next two days I barely moved. The settee was my island and that book my lifeline. I read everything Alex wrote and then I read it again. And again. I studied his cadence, his word choice, his verbal imagery.
I thought of all the writers I loved—authours whose words lifted me. Dickens, Atwood, McEwan, Vonnegut … a list as long as my arm. I pulled book after book off my shelf and reread familiar passages. These novels were the friends I had when I had no friends. They loved me when I was unlovable. They were my salvation until I met Keaton.
Most of all I thought of his words. How, from the first night I met him, he transported me. Praque, Ireland, France. He took me to a place of possibilities and he painted me a picture with his language as surely as if he held a pigment-laden brush in his hand.
I let these words and thoughts fill my head and push out the self-doubt and confusion.
And then I slept.

**
The next morning Claire dropped off the kittens and their supplies before eight. My living room looked as though a hurricane had torn through a library, but I didn’t care. After she left, I went to shower, leaving the little felines to play amongst the mountain of books.
I’d read once that hot water could open the capillaries in the brain. I don’t know if it was that or perhaps all the words I’d absorbed over the last forty-eight hours had gelled in my memory while I slept, but for whatever reason, I was now ready to write.
Or at least try.
I had my cup of tea and my notebook and my pen.
Time to start.
Yes. It’s time. Going to write now.
What the fuck?
Suddenly that empty sheet of white paper seemed as large as the wall. I made a mark. Not a word. Not even a letter, but a dark slash across the whiteness. The page shrunk back to normal size.
Yin and Yang looked at me from the corner, turning their small heads in my direction before settling in to nap.
I flexed and stretched like prizefighter before a bout. Pen in hand. Check. Paper. Check. Writing now.
The little bird …
Scribble and scratch that.
The small creature …
Who the hell did I think I was? James Fucking Herriot?
Crush paper and throw.
The cats awoke, thinking I was playing some sort of game. To my mind, this was not, by any stretch of the imagination, fun.
Write.
Too boring. Crumble.
Too flowery. Crumble.
Pretentious shit. Crumble.
The kittens chased the paper balls, batting them around for pleasure until they became bored and the wrinkled spheres outnumbered them three to one.
Frustrated I went to the kitchen and made another cup of tea, then sunk down into the cushions of the settee and closed my eyes.
How did Alex do this? How did my favourite writers find the words to make me feel ... feel …
Feel!
Stop overthinking, Evangline. I conjured up the photograph against the darkness of my closed eyes. Any fool can see that it’s a sparrow amongst the gravel. But what else?
Taking a deep breath, I opened my eyes and picked up the pen again. I had clarity.
And so I began.
 
**
Peck, peck, peck.
Somewhere in here, there is a bug. There is sustenance.
My markings are those of a burglar but I work honestly for my meal. I take nothing from you. This garden is enough. The flowers are bright in their colour against my white and grey. I blend into my surroundings easily. I’m hardly noticed at all. But you see.
It is a small thing. I am a small thing. But you have found beauty in the small.
 
**
 
Tousled hair. Tousled bodies. Skin slips against skin and satin. We lay loved and fucked and exhausted. Blanketed in kisses, your chest for a pillow, I drift away. A perfect sleep unlike any other. Soon the light will come, but for now I rest in shadow. You watch me. I am safe.
 
**
The warmth of our bed. The warmth of a morning coffee. I drink you in. The coolness of your skin. The icy blue of your eyes. Your aloofness, balanced by your total abandonment. We rise and fall, go hot and explode. Then we are one. A single body at rest. The morning beckons. It is a new day, ripe with what is possible. But I have seen the night. I know of its miracles. And I pray for the eve.
 
**
Round and round. There and back. The places I’ve been and seen have left their mark on me like a kiss in greeting and a farewell embrace. I am worn, tired. But life stretches out ahead. There are wonders you can only imagine. Experiences your mind has not yet conjured. I would not trade my memories for the world but my time is done. There is a garage and in it an auto, apple red and waiting to be picked. It is your time now. Let the wheels take you. Explore your life.
 
**
Your face. Can you see it? Surely you can. Before you, I wandered, always wondering. How will I know? Will I find love? Will it find me? Then, without warning, there you were. I looked into your eyes and you looked into my soul. As surely as though a thousand cosmic truths rained down on me at once, I was struck with the undeniable certainty that you were what love looked like. Love will age, love will grow fine lines around its eyes and its hair will become tinged with grey. Yet I will always recognize its face.

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Color me embarrassed

9/11/2016

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It's hard to admit that I've been a slacker when it comes to this blog. But I have. In my defense, I've not slacked in other areas. I've been hard at work ... at my job, as a mom, a friend, a pet owner, someone who is interested in politics and mainly I've been hard at work writing.
I keep reading that the publishing industry has changed. That now it's about more than a good story, well told. It's about websites, and traffic, and page views and SEO. And while I can understand that ... I mean publishing is a business and people want to make money on every level ... it still makes me sad.
Would I love to one day be able to support myself with writing. AB-SO-LUTELY. I mean that's the dream, but it's not why I do this.
Before I started writing, I would hear or read other writers saying how their characters had a life of their own and how they wrote because they had to.
It never resonated with me. I couldn't understand that feeling of creating something with a life of its own like that. And then, I started writing. And boy, do I understand now.
A friend gave me a copy of Anne Lamott's book "Bird by Bird".  It's a slim little volume of her thoughts on writing. She's pretty damn good at it so I think her thoughts are worth a look. My takeaway from the book (and I paraphrase) is this: You'll never get published. You'll never make any money. So you better be doing this because you love it.
I may die with eight unpublished novels. That's not the plan, but if that's the outcome, I'm cool with it because it will be eight novels I'm proud of and that I wrote out of love.
But all the talk of social media and fan base, blah blah blah inspired me to dust off this blog and make a serious effort to keep it alive. I've also published a new domain (an @london domain because I'm a shameless anglophile) so I hope to have another website in the not-so-distant future.
But to catch you up in case you're interested:
My first book Crazy Quilt ... still love it ... still querying.
I've had 15 rejections and some of them included very positive feedback. Just cause, I emailed one of my favorite writers, Jodie Picoult, a couple of months ago, because I heard she was good at emailing back. She told me she had 100 rejections. She's a best selling author now so I figure I owe that little southern novel of mine at least the opportunity to get 100 rejections. If nothing comes of that, I'll self-publish on amazon and see how that goes.
My second book is more of a straight romance ... based on a relationship I had with a man in London about 30 years ago, but it's in a holding pattern for now.
Two years ago I met my dear friend Lisa in her hometown of Dublin, Ireland. Over dinner I told her about my idea for new book. "Stop whatever you're working on and write that book now," she told me. And that's what I did. I'm very proud of it and I did freelance jobs and saved my money for a year so I could hire an editor in New York to help me polish the manuscript. The editor was a literary agent for fifteen years before striking out on her own, so I think that's a valuable perspective to have. I'm sure I'll have my work cut out for me when she sends it back but I'm excited to make it the best it can be and start the querying process on that book.
At the moment, I'm working on a book with a co-writer. He's extremely talented and a friend I met on authonomy.com, which if you've been following me you know I had my first book on that site for over a year and got great feedback. Sadly, Harper Collins shut the website down, but the valued friendships I made (Lisa, Mark and CoeDee) remain. The book is a bit "Me Before You", but not  ... and with a happier ending. Writing with someone else slows the process but it's moving along. I'd say we're halfway done then can start the rewrites and editing.
I'm anxious to finish this collaboration because there is a book burning a hole in my head and I had to put it on the back burner to co-write the current manuscript. I have tons of research to do for the next book (on flowers of all things!! Not my strong suit) but I've already ordered two massive books to study. Just as a tease, when my grandmother was a little girl, her mom left her and her sister (my great aunt) in the old Watson's Pharmacy in Decatur (it was across the street from the train depot when I was growing up) while she ran off to Baltimore with another man. She knew their father would come get them but it was a scandal nonetheless, and the girls got their photos in the newspaper. Anyway, the book will be about much more than that, but that is the genesis.

I appreciate you taking the time to visit and I promise to check in on a more regular basis. This ... this writing thing ... has proven to be a great joy in this next chapter of my life. For snickers, here is a short, short story I did for my writer's group that tells a fictionalized version of my grandmother and great aunt's story at the soda fountain at Watson's Pharmacy.

***

 “What flavor do you want?” Carolyn Reynolds asked. She is a year behind me at school and has been working at the Watson’s pharmacy soda fountain for nearly three months. She was pretty in the same as most of the girls at Winnona High—fresh-faced and blonde. Me? I had the dark hair and eyes of my mother.
Watson’s has a dozen flavors of ice cream at any one time, and this will be my 144th free ice cream cone. That’s a cone a month, every year, for twelve years. There is only one other person I know who gets free ice cream, and that’s my younger sister, Bea. She still has another dozen to go, but today I turned eighteen and so the ice cream gravy train is coming to a halt. How we came to get a free cone a week, well, that’s some story.
Seems people will feel sorry for you if your mama leaves you sitting at a soda fountain and runs off with a shoe salesman from Baltimore. Hell, you’ll even get your photo on the front of the newspaper.
My mother was pretty smart, though. She planned it all out, nice and neat.

 ******
The sun was already beating down on our desert of a front yard when Mama flung open our bedroom curtains and told us to wake on up. Nothing grew in our sorry excuse for a garden, but that didn’t stop our mother from trying. She’d buy geraniums and pansies on sale and plant them by the front walk. And when they died, she just dug them up and planted more. Daddy considered it a waste of money, but at some point he gave up fussing about it.
I sat up, rubbed my eyes and then looked at the clock.
“Dagnabbit, Mama! I’m late for school,” I hollered.
“You know I don’t like you talking like that,” she said, raising her hand like she was going to swat my leg. Then, for some reason, she seemed to change her mind.
“You’re not going to school today. We’re going to have a special mother/daughter day.”
“Mother daughter day?” I asked, looking over at my little sister. I don’t know why Bea was grinning like a fool. She’s not in school yet so every day is a mother/daughter day for her. “Have we ever had one of those before?”
“For the love of Pete, Delores. Stop acting like you just came down from the planet Mars. Of course, we have. Any time we do something, just the three of us, why that’s a mother/daughter day.” I nodded, the explanation making sense and besides I wasn’t about to argue, not if this meant a day off from school.
There were new dresses laid out for us to wear. Our mother liked to dress us like twins, even though I was 357 days older than my sister Beatrice. It’s a bona fide fact. You can check my birth certificate.
The dresses were identical in style, just not in the details. Mine was pale blue, and Bea’s was yellow. They both had the same puffed sleeves and smocking across the front, though mine had tiny berries decorating the bodice, and Bea had cherries dancing across the front of hers. There were new white socks with lace trim, and our patent leather shoes had not a scuff mark on them.
“So what are we doing today, mama?” I asked as she tied a bow at the back of my dress.
“It’s a surprise. We’re going to take the bus so we need to get a move on.”
Bea was whining that she was hungry but Mama told her to be patient. We were all going to have ice cream for breakfast. Ice cream for breakfast? I could barely contain myself. Bea saw me grinning and, figuring it was okay, she started to giggle.
Mama had on a pretty green plaid dress and pumps. She slipped white cotton gloves on her hands before grabbing a suitcase that was by the front door.
“What do you have a suitcase for, Mama?” I asked. “Are we going somewhere?”
“Well, aren’t you just full of questions, Delores Jean. I told you we’re going to have a mother/daughter day. I’m taking some old clothes to a thrift store that’s down the way. Just a quick errand.”
Mama locked the front door and took Bea’s hand. “Take your sister’s other hand, Delores. Stay together and don’t dawdle.”
 The bus stop was three blocks from our house. I tell you, I felt like we were pretty on parade walking down that sidewalk. The sun was already starting to make me warm and thank goodness there was a big oak tree by the bus stop so we had some shade to stand in. Mama kept looking at her watch and tapping her foot, and then she’d look over at me and Bea and smile and tell us to quit hunching over.
A few minutes later the bus pulled next to the curb, spewing smoke and hot air. Bea climbed up first and, with her short legs, she was slow as Christmas, of course.
We smooshed in three to the seat, being as we were little. The ride took about fifteen minutes and the whole time Mama kept smoothing our hair and giving us kisses. It was nice.
The bus deposited us right in front of the courthouse in the town square. Mama and I grabbed Bea’s hands again and we crossed the street. I knew just where we were ‘cause we come here once a month so Mama can get her hair done. She brings crayons and coloring books to keep busy and if we behave, when she’s ready for the dryer, she gives us each a quarter and sends us next door to Watson’s pharmacy. Ice cream for breakfast!
Mama opened the door and a little bell signaled our arrival. She told us to go on over to the soda fountain — she was just going to buy a magazine. We walked up to the counter and pressed our noses against the glass case. Bea had to stand on tippy toe.
The glass was cool and my warm breath caused it to fog up. I don’t even know why Bea is looking. She always gets chocolate. She’s going to get it all over her new dress and Mama is gonna have a hissy fit. Guaranteed.
I’m the same way though, ‘cept I always get vanilla. Sometimes I’ll ask for sprinkles, but most times I like it plain. Here in south Georgia, we don’t get snow and I always thought vanilla ice cream must be how snow tastes.
 “My Mama will be here in a minute,” I said to the lady behind the counter, after we ordered. “She’ll pay you.” She wasn’t the same one that was here on Saturdays when Mama got her hair fixed. That lady was Terri. She was pretty and blonde and looked like a schoolteacher. This lady was short and round with pink cheeks.
“No problem,” said the lady. “And what’s your name?” she asked, looking at my little sister.
 “Bea,” she said.
 “Is that really her name?” the lady asked me, “or does she just know the first letter?”
 “Nope, that’s really her name,” I said. “Short for Beatrice.”
 “And what’s your name, honey?” she asked me.
“Delores,” I said. “It’s not short for anything.”
Just then Mama came around the other side of the cough medicine display. She put her suitcase down and placed her magazine face up on the counter. Reaching for Bea, she picked her up and plopped her on a stool, while I scrambled for a seat on my own.
“No spinning,” she said, pointing her finger at me. “I don’t want you getting dizzy and throwing up, now.”
“Here’s a dollar,” my Mama told the lady. “You can keep the change. My girls are well behaved, so I’m just going to leave them here to have their treat, while I run down to the corner for a minute.”
“Sure thing,” said the lady, handing my sister her cone. “I’ll keep an eye on them.”
“It’s not a treat. It’s our breakfast,” Bea told the lady.
Mama took Bea’s face in her hands and kissed the top of her head, then did the same to me. “I love you girls. Don’t you ever forget that.”
“We love you, too, Mama,” I said. Bea was too busy licking the ice cream that was running down her arm to talk. “Hurry back so you can get your cone.”
I heard the tinkling of the bell and knew she’d gone out the door. If she’s just going to the corner, she ought to be back before I’m finished with my ice cream. For sure, she’ll be back before that slowpoke sister of mine is done.
When I was nearly down to the end of my cone, I bit the bottom off so I could get the last bit of melted snow. The nice lady got a rag and tried to get the chocolate off Bea’s hands. The front of her dress was a lost cause as I had predicted.
I knew I wasn’t supposed to, but I started spinning in my chair because I was restless and Mama should have been back by now.
 “How long you reckon it’s been since my Mama left,” I asked the lady.
 She glanced at her watch. “I don’t know. Twenty minutes, maybe.
“Does it take long to drop off clothes at the thrift store?”
 “Thrift store?” the lady repeated back to me.
 “Yes, ma’am. The one down at the corner.”
 The lady smiled at me and wiped off the counter even though it was already clean.
 “You girls be good. I’ll be right back.”
 I watched as she walked around the counter and over to the back of the store where Dr. Watson was doing all his stuff with pills and what not.
 He looked over our way, then he called his assistant over and that fella started doing whatever it was Dr. Watson had been doing. Then I saw Dr. Watson come out from his special place.
 He walked, head down, to the front of the store, and though I couldn’t see him anymore I heard the bell tinkle, so I reckoned he had gone outside. A few minutes later, it tinkled again and then I spotted him. He walked up to Bea and me, took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
 “What’s that?” Dr. Watson asked, pointing at the counter, and for the first time I noticed a corner of white peeking out from under the Good Housekeeping magazine.
 “It’s my mama’s,” I said. “She already paid for it.”
He reached over and pulled on the triangle. He opened the piece of paper and I watched as his eyes scanned it, left to right.
“You girls stay right here,” he said, his face full of seriousness.
While Bea and I sat there bored out of our brains and kicking our heels against the stools, apparently there was a lot was going on we didn’t know about. First the police showed up, then a newspaper fella with a camera showed up. Finally my daddy showed up, and he was none too happy, I’ll tell you that.
You’ve probably guessed by now, those weren’t old clothes in my mother’s suitcase. And there was no thrift store down on the corner — only a taxicab waiting to take her and the shoe salesman to the train station, and then a train there to take them to Baltimore.
All in all, mama leaving was quite the scandal. Well, outside of our house, anyway. When it hit me that mama wasn’t coming back, panic set in. Then sadness, and finally anger. My mother’s name was never mentioned again. My daddy got colder and he remarried a woman even colder than he was. His only concession to our childhood was to take us to Watson’s once a month for ice cream. Looking back, I think it helped him keep his hate for my mother alive. At least until he died.
But somehow I survived the next dozen years. Bea can make it another year or two. When I get settled and after she gets her last free cone, I’ll come back for her.
 
******
 “What’s the most exotic flavor you got there?” I asked Carolyn.
“Exotic?” she replied, scrunching her nose up like she smelled something funny. “I dunno. Spumoni, I reckon.”
I liked the sound of that.
“One scoop of spumoni then.”
I opened my purse and dug through the bills, looking for change. I knew it was my last free cone day, but still I got out 65 cents and put it on the counter.
“I think I’d like to pay for this one,” I told Carolyn.
The telltale budge of my wallet spoke to the amount of cash inside. My savings from three summers of babysitting was enough for a train ticket to Baltimore with a bit to spare.
I took my cone, picked up my suitcase and walked out of Watson’s pharmacy for the last time.
I heard they have snow in Baltimore.

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What to do, What to do

5/4/2015

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I'm in this weird half world of writing where I have one book finished and professionally edited (and being queried), another book waiting to be professionally edited and a third that is half-way finished. Plus I have a file full of book ideas. Some of the ideas are just a glimmer of a book, some are just a title, and some have fully fleshed out scenes.
So what next, while I wait on rejections letters and an editor-for-hire's feedback?
Do I start a new book, or finish the third one? Or do I take a break and learn web design ... something I've wanted to do for ages?
The trouble is I don't love web design. I love writing. I like sitting here with my thoughts and when they're coming quick and lovely, I get lost in the sound of my fingers on the keyboards. No doubt I haven't approached this writing thing the way many before me likely have. I've no real training. I do my research, think through my characters, plot out a timeline or sketch the rooms in their house. I do all this so that I don't get derailed by details when the muse strikes (even that sounds corny, I know). But when the movie starts playing in my head and I have to write it down.
I think my problem with whether or not to finish book three comes down to the genre. It's actually the second book I was working on but when I told my friend Lisa, in Dublin, my idea for a third book, which she told me to immediately begin work on. I listened to Lisa, but it left book number two hanging in the breeze.
Book number one was a labor of love. It was meant to be a somewhat easy, breezy book you could take on vacation at the beach. It was a love letter to my late sister, if I'm honest.
Book two was meant to be more of a straight romance. Not a bodice ripper or a historical romance, but a contemporary romance based on my experiences with a British pen pal. The first half was coming along pretty well until I dropped it like a hot potato, so it will take some serious thought to finish it up.
The third book is more literary fiction. It has a female main character with a strong voice and I've found that's what I really want to write. All my books will no doubt have a romantic element, because that's part of life, but I don't think I want to write straight up romance novels.
Thus, my dilemma. Do I go back to the romance novel and finish it in the spirit of "finishing what you've begun", or do I move on?
I hope to go to a writers' conference in St. Simons this summer for a few days. It's the same conference where first book won the novel award all those years ago. I'll see what kind of feedback I get on the new book.
Just writing this all down has helped my brain formulate a possible course of action.
After leaving a book alone for a while, you need to go back and read it again, to get yourself back in that voice and mindset. I think I'll do that and see if maybe, just maybe, I can find a way to elevate that book beyond merely a romance. It will be a challenge, no doubt about it, but one I think I'm up for.
I feel so grateful that I stumbled upon writing at this point in my life. In the last few years it's given me a great deal of joy and I've met so many great people who are pursuing the same dream. I know a lot of folks who are self publishing and having a good bit of luck with it. For me, for now, I'm going to try the traditional route. I'll just keep my nose to the grindstone and keep trying to improve. Thank God for good friends on this journey, and good editors. As always, I'm looking forward to the next chapter.
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Just a little PR for a friend

3/23/2015

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I pinky swear promise I'm going to write a new post soon and catch you up on the new book, because here it is, almost the end of March so CLEARLY the month of November has come and gone. And yes, I did NaNoWriMo as promised, and YES, I wrote 50,000 words.
I'm very excited about the new book but that's not the purpose of this quick little post – not my NEW book anyway.
Rather, my lovely friend CoeDee, whom I met on Authonomy.com and who lives in Ohio, has just had her book published. It's available on amazon.com and it's called "The Life You Leave Behind"... and it's great.
It's got that southern feel I love ... it's got romance, heartbreak, bad choices, good choices, family ... oh heck, it's got it all. You can get it in paperback or download to your kindle but for the love of all that's holy, go get it!
Make CoeDee happy, please.
One day I'll have a book published and I'll be begging you to do the same for me.
Back soon with more news.
Pinky promise.

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Remember me?

10/17/2014

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Well, I wouldn't blame you if you didn't. How is it possible I haven't posted an entry in...what? TEN MONTHS! I should be taken behind the woodshed for sure. If I can be forgiven, I do have good news to report. I made that trip to the United Kingdom. I met Lisa in Dublin. She is the mother of the cutest little boy EVAH...His name is Eoin (pronounced Owen for us Americans). Lisa is my Irish sister from another mother. I went to England with the intention of doing research for my second book (which I did in some small degree), however when I told her the idea for my third book she told me to stop immediately anything I was working on and start that new book. Well, obviously I do what Lisa says...obviously. First of November, NaNoWriMo starts. For those of you who don't know, that stands for National Novel Writing Month. You go to their website and sign up and pledge to write 50,000 words in 30 days (Nov. 1-30). Now, not everyone succeeds, but I did this two years ago and failure was not an option! It's how I got the good start to book number two. And I'm hoping the magic will happen again for book three. I have to warn you, the new one is a bit darker but man, am I excited about it. So that will eat up my month of November. Oddly enough, at the same time, I'm sending my book "Crazy Quilt" to this wonderful woman in Canada to edit for me and to help it "shine" as they say. On my last post I was doing my happy dance because my book was named a "Wednesday One to Watch" on authonomy.com (the site where I met Lisa). I was working hard to make it to one of the top five spots and get a review from a Harper Collins editor. Well, I did and I did! I just received the review the other day. I thought it was pretty positive and she had some great suggestions. I'll post it at the end of this blog entry for those of you who are interested. So, I'll be doing rewrites on that in December. I love the holidays and usually have some time off from work so this will be a perfect time. The other great thing that happened on my trip is I met my friend Mark, the most charming of English gents you'd want to know. He's been a true friend and supporter for almost two years now and I'm happy to report he's just as wonderful in person. I fully intend to keep him in my life for a very long time if he's up for it. He's a wonderful writer in his own right and a kick ass photographer which, as an art director, I can fully appreciate. I have to laugh because who knows if anyone will even read this post/blog. I certainly should lower my expectations as I've trained you to expect...not much of late! But if you do find your way here, please know I'm very appreciative and I've I work hard and catch a few breaks, maybe I'll see you one day at a book signing. :-)

Here's my review from the kind editor at Harper Collins U.K. I take her very valid and kind suggestions to heart:

 

‘Crazy Quilt’ is a women’s fiction novel set in the American South in the late 70s. Two sisters, Harper and McCall, who were estranged for 15 years, are reunited when their grandmother dies and leaves them her house and $10,000 each to do something frivolous. McCall left the small town they grew up in to seek a new life on the East coast, while Harper, 8 years younger, was left behind and is now divorced. The women are reunited at pivotal moments in their lives, and gradually grow closer, but secrets from the past threaten to undo everything they’ve rebuilt. Described by the author as southern chick-lit, this is a fun, warm story with a darker side that explores family relationships and the secrets we keep from those closest to us.

 

I very much enjoyed reading ‘Crazy Quilt’. McCall and Harper are great characters, different, but not stereotypical chalk and cheese, and the estrangement makes for an interesting dynamic. I think it's a great premise and your characters and ability to tell a great story make this an enjoyable and absorbing read. I think a large part of this is your decision to tell this from Harper’s perspective, which is skilfully done. The limitations of this viewpoint create intrigue around the other characters; this is a good example of what we don’t know being as effective as what we do. You have an easy style and the writing flows at a good pace. The events unfold naturally and are well timed and you drop in details about characters and background without disrupting the flow, for example this paragraph in the opening chapter:

 

‘On the surface, McCall’s reasons for moving home were clearly more practical than emotional, but then so were mine. To suddenly become half owner of a large Victorian home was a blessing to me, since I was without a home of my own after my brief marriage ended. Three years earlier I had married Nick, the Coca-Cola delivery man for the A&P where I worked as a cashier. I found out too late that he gambled away most of what he earned. My one brief attempt at building a life outside of this house had been a miserable failure.’

 

At this point, this is all the background information we need about Harper. We learn quite a lot about her in this short paragraph. However, I read the first 10 chapters and we don’t learn much about her marriage or divorce and how they affected her after this snapshot. This brings me on to the area that I think needs work.

 

You need to establish the women's characters a bit more, particularly in relation to each other; they need to feel like they have a life beyond the novel. A good way to do this would be to have them reminisce and reference the past, which you would expect them to do a bit more of in the circumstances. The opening, when the sisters meet again for the first time in 15 years, feels very realistic, it’s a great opening chapter. However, there isn't quite enough growth and development or redevelopment of their relationship. There are a couple of hints that they know a bit about each other’s lives – Harper knows what McCall does for a living, but that seems to be it – did they talk on the phone once a year, write letters? You would expect them to be a more curious about each other. What were they like as children? Have they changed much or are there lots of similarities? Does Harper feel resentment towards McCall for leaving? There are hints at this but they’re glossed over. As a reader, I’m very curious about all of these things. There's also no real conflict in this relationship, and that doesn’t ring true.



In fact, there isn't a great amount of conflict or tension anywhere, at least not in the chapters I've read. There is potential to create more drama around the existing events, for example Harper's burgeoning relationship with the doctor. This is taken in the stride of the novel and happens so quickly and easily that there was no build-up of chemistry and tension. Also, McCall’s mentions when she breaks her leg that she’ll struggle because she’s so independent, yet we aren’t shown how it affects her. Furthermore, they seem to accept the development (not wishing to give the plot away) after her hospital visit without much reaction at the time or later on. The pitch hints that conflict will come later, but you need more hints at what is to come as there’s no real drive to the plot at present. 

As she is your narrator, I think some more work on Harper in particular, would really improve the novel. She undergoes something of a transformation but there isn't a huge amount of change in her attitude, demeanour, confidence etc. She makes these changes in her life, which seem to be dramatic for her, but it’s not clear to the reader if that’s the case. Again, this is about creating a life outside – in particular before – the novel. Her thoughts about Dr Swanson, for example, are very forward and perhaps a bit too “modern”, but she’s shocked by McCall’s Cosmo magazine. Harper sometimes comes across as a much younger character, and while I understand she will be naive about some things, in comparison with her sister, she's also been married and divorced and had the responsibility of caring for her dying grandmother, yet she jumps into the relationship with Dr Swanson with the enthusiasm and guilelessness of a teenager, not a woman with all that life experience. This is the area that needs the most work. Harper is brilliant in so many ways and as a reader I really warmed to her, but she is inconsistent.



I think your structure and plotting work well, and when your characters are more established, I think this will be an interesting proposition for a publisher. Overall I think this is a promising work and I hope my suggestions will be of help to you. We’d be very happy to read a rewrite.

 

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Doing my Happy Dance

2/8/2014

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You may be asking yourself, "What is that little box over there titled 'One to Watch Wednesday.'" Quite simply it's the reason I'm smiling from ear to ear. If you've read my previous posts you know my book is on the Harper Collins U.K. site called authonomy.com. RIght now the book is at #18. If I'm in the top 5 a Harper Collins editor actually reads my book and happily rips it to shreds in order to make me a better writer. What's not to love, right? However, once a week, on Wednesday, some clever soul that does the blog at authonomy picks one book out of the thousands on the site to feature as the "one to watch." Well, the literary gods shined on me this week, and lo and behold my humble little book was picked. I've been so busy of late, I haven't been on the site reading and reviewing as much as I would have liked, and might have missed the honor all together had a friend not sent me a message. To be honest, I've been letting those bad old self doubts creep in so this little warm fuzzy was just what I needed. On another note, it looks like this trip to the U.K. is really going to happen. My daughter is headed over this summer to study for 5 weeks and I'll go visit her while she's there. But truthfully, I see the kid a ton (big smile) and if I'm honest, my main reason for wanting to go is to visit those terrific U.K. friends I've made at authonomy.com. I've written about them as well on this blog. David, my thriller writing hiker and family man in Northern England, Lisa my smart and sassy gal pal in Dublin, and most of all my best friend in the world, truly the most creative and interesting man I know...Mark of Derbyshire. I can NOT wait. When I return I'll be full of memories and stories. Now, THAT will be a post.

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Finding Balance

8/17/2013

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Whoa! Has it really been two months since I posted a blog entry?
Well, that right there tells you the load of wash I call life has become unbalanced.
There are so many things in our life we have to juggle. Finding balance between home, family, work, friends plus maybe a little time for oneself is never easy.
My new thing is trying to strike the right balance between reading and writing. If I want to become a better writer I have to, as Mary Kay Andrews says, glue my butt in the chair. (What a great name for a blog!)
But I also have to read other writers and learn from them. When I was at St. Simons Island last week, my cousin gave me "The Island" by Elin Hildebrand to read. I absolutely loved it in that couldn't put it down kind of way. In fact, I was pretty unhappy that I had to drive for five hours and couldn't finish it until I got home.
At the end of the day that is how I hope and pray people will feel about my book.
How wonderful to be able to create characters that people care about so much they are willing to turn the page again and again to find out what happens to them. Some of you know that last November I participated in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). I wrote 50,000 words in 30 days. Now to do that, your fingers have to pretty much fly so that you can write 1,500 to 2,000 words a day and it may not all be pretty. I have to say, I went back this past week to reread those 50,000 words and I was not at all unhappy. So I've been editing that first bit since then. I've got some technical things to fix, then I'll look at gaps I need to fill.
This first part of TSB (the second book) is about a relationship between a 20-something southern girl and a young Englishman living in London. They correspond by letter until they finally meet. The second part takes place 25 years later in modern day London. I can't really finish the second part of the book until I get back from my trip to England in the spring. At least that's what I tell myself. :-)
While I'm there, I plan to meet the three great people I've talked about in earlier posts...Lisa, David and my dear, dear friend Mark.
I'm going to include a  a couple of the letters between my two characters. Hope you like 'em. Maybe they'll whet your appetite for the whole book and with any luck, I'll finish it and you'll love it.
It's why writers do what they do...for your love. "-)

July 3, 1985
Dear Lloyd,
Do you celebrate July Fourth over there? Just a joke! I’m not that daft. How do you like that…I used a proper English word. If I come for a visit, I’m going to have to learn how to talk like a lady, don’t you think? Perhaps in every letter you could teach me an English word that has a very different meaning in America than in Britain. I think daft is pretty much the same, though. Can you tell, I’m trying to skirt the issue of how badly I’ve slagged off in the letter writing department? I did it again, British word: five points for Schuyler. Oh and the five points for “daft”, so a total of ten. I think I’ll save up my points and trade them in for a favor from you. How would that be? Maybe even for forgiveness for not writing sooner. Truthfully, I got the letter you wrote before the trip and then your tape (thank you, thank you, thank you) and I really didn’t have anything new to report. I’m mainly going to work and coming home. I do have a freelance design project I’m working on that will bring some much needed funds to the “Send Schuyler to London” foundation. But it’s a beautiful summer here and we do have a pool and it is constantly calling my name. Can you hear it now? “Schuyler, Schuyler, Schuyler.” How is a girl supposed to get any work done, I mean really? Honestly, accept my apologies for not writing while you were away, but in truth I could have just instructed you to see previous letter, for all the excitement in my life at the moment.
Your faithful servant,
Schuyler
P.S. I forgot! You asked for my phone number…no need to keep it secret…no one cares.
212- 378-4518. I guess we have one of those country code thingies but I don’t have a bloody clue what it is. Oh!!! Another five points for Schuyler (“bloody”). Woo hoo!



13 July, 1985
Dear Schuyler,   
Happy Bastille Day eve. Yes, it is the celebration of the storming of the Bastille and the beginning of the grand French Republic. We Brits look at it as a day when the frogs get blindingly drunk, shoot off fireworks and in general act like the arses they are. Can you tell there is not a great degree of love lost between the British and the French? You’ve made mention of a possible visit. Did you have a certain date in mind? Fall will be here before you know it and I think that could be a particularly nice time for you to make the trip. Now as far as your tutelage in proper English is concerned, rather than drag this out, let me pass along some key words you may study at your leisure.
First of all, even though you may hear me use the word wanker, you should not use that word. I’m a bloke and it’s more acceptable for me to utilize this as a part of my vocabulary. For the record, it has to do with male masturbation so not something I’m guessing you will need in day to day conversation.
The same goes for knackered. It sounds like it means tired, which it does, but the implication is generally tired after a naughty night, so stay away from that one as well. Now on to the basics:
Fag: cigarette not a bloke who likes a bloke.


Biscuit: what we have with tea. What you might call a cookie.
Loo: WC, water closet, toilet…you get the picture.
The post: We don’t tire ourselves by adding the word “office”.
Tube: has nothing to do with wanker or knackered (aren’t I awful!), but rather what we call our metro.
Newsagent: the nice bloke round the corner where I go to get the paper. They have fags and sweets there as well.
Sweets: sorry, missed that one, didn’t I. Candy. Don’t need it , don’t want it.
This should get you off to a good start. Plus you’ll have me close by as a translator. Study hard; grueling work it is, coming to see the Queen. Get your arse over here soon.
Warmly,
Lloyd


At the end of the day that is how I hope and pray people will feel about my book.
How wonderful to be able to create characters that people care about so much they are will to turn the page again and again to find out what happens to them.
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R.I.P. Vince Flynn.

6/19/2013

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James Gandolfini died today. So did Slim Whitman. I heard some people say these things happen in threes. They wondered who the third person might be. I'm sad to say that one of my favorite authors died today, and I've been sad beyond measure; certainly beyond measure for someone I didn't know outside of the pages of a book. A couple of years ago a conservative talk show host here in Atlanta was raving about the books of Vince Flynn. I had just gotten a Nook e-reader and decided to download a sample chapter of "American Assassin"...this is the novel where we learn how Vince's hero, Mitch Rapp, was recruited and trained by the CIA. Once I read that first chapter, I had to read the entire book. I read twelve more of Vince's books in rapid succession. Mitch Rapp is a hero that loves his country, doesn't tolerate bullshit, goes against the tide and challenges authority. There's a fair amount of butt kicking in the books as well. Rush Limbaugh was a personal friend of Vince. He spoke quite a bit about him on the radio today and you could tell his heart was heavy. He said Vince was a kind, humble, good-looking guy who cared about his friends, family and his country. He said Vince Flynn WAS Mitch Rapp. I think that comes through on the page when you read Vince Flynn's books. I'd been so busy in my life and with writing and editing my own book that I hadn't taken the time to read Vince's most recent release, "The Last Man", which I downloaded months ago. I think it's time now. I was happy to see that Vince's final book is due to come out in November. From what I read he was in a great deal of pain while he finished it. He leaves behind a wife and three children, but he also leaves behind countless fans of his books who are lucky to have Vince/Mitch with them forever in those pages. I count myself lucky to be one of those people. You'll be missed, Vince Flynn. I'm glad you're not in pain any longer. Keep kickin' butt.
I'm sad to say that one of my favorite authors died today, and I've been sad beyond measure; certainly beyond measure for someone I didn't know outside of the pages of a book.
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50 Shades of Grey, My Ass.

5/10/2013

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In all fairness to EL James, I have not read any of the "Shades of Grey" trilogy. I read a paragraph of an excerpt that was so poorly written, I honesty had no desire to read more, regardless of how steamy it was purported to be. And for those of you who have read the books and liked them, well... more power to you. I think if you're honest with yourself, James' great command of the English language is probably not the reason you're a fan.
In my quest to write chick lit, I've found it at times necessary to write a sex scene. I try not to make it gratuitous and I try to have some emotion behind the ripping off of clothing. These scenes in my first book, "Crazy Quilt," are fairly tame. I was afraid what Nana would think if she read them, so I might actually have been a tad timid in my descriptions of the act. But the more I've written these types of encounters, the easier it has gotten. Would you be shocked if I told you I actually like writing them now? If I come back two days later and read the scene and it still gives me hot flashes, then I know I've done my job.
What has been interesting to me, however, is to find there are several men I know who are quite good at writing sex scenes. I know! Who knew?
My friend David writes thrillers, and there's typically a good looking guy and a good looking girl in them, and well...things happen. I'd let my grandmother read his scenes and they always make sense in the context and flow of the story.
My new BFF Mark is a master of these scenes, and truthfully, his writing is more sensual than sexual. He's able to convey every emotion, touch, smell, sight, taste to the reader until you feel like you're right there...not a bad place to be, eh?
The big surprise is my funny friend, Warrick. He's a more casual acquaintance and we usually just verbally spar for fun. I finally got around to starting his book "Sleeping With God," which as the title suggests is about a man who, well...sleeps with God. Only God is a beautiful woman, who likes sex...a lot...and doesn't mind wearing a french maid's uniform on occasion. Knock me over with a feather.
So I guess the steamy, bodice ripping, fan your face type stuff isn't just the territory of us women writing chick lit. I know a few guys that could teach us a thing or two. Now that sounds like fun.
The more I've written these types of encounters, the easier it's gotten. Would you be shocked if I told you I actually like writing them now? If I come back two days later and read the scene and it still gives me hot flashes, then I know I've done my job.
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    Sheri Emery

    I've been a graphic designer for nearly 30 years and for some crazy reason I decided I wanted to write a book. So I did, and now I'm writing another. Looking for that one person to believe in me.

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