Alaska Romance Writers of America

TIME is RUNNING OUT!.....

2012-02-09T15:57:00.000-09:00

Next in the Betrayer Series

Time is running out to be part of my next book

Kiss of the Betrayer

The deadline to enter the 'Name the Character' Contest

ends on February 14

So enter now

Rules: Read the character description

Come up with a clever name

You can submit just a first name, just a last name, or both

How to Enter: You may enter five ways:

1. Email your name choice to boonebrux@gmail.com

Put Name Contest in the subject line

2. Tweet me at Twitter

3. Go to my Facebook Author Page at Facebook
At the left side of the page

Click on the 'Contact Boone' button

Put your answer in the Message section

4. On my website, you can enter by sending me a message

from my 'Contact Boone' page

5. Last, but not least, you may enter from my blog

Just click on Contact Me at upper right corner of sidebar

and send me your entry

Easy squeezy!!!

How will the name be chosen?

1. Every entry will be considered and chosen through a process of elimination by myself and other Entangled Publishing editors, including Heather Howland, Libby Murphy & Kerry Vail.

2. In case of a tie, the winner will be randomly drawn.

What will I win?

· The character in Kiss of the Betrayer will be given your contest entry name and you will receive a glowing acknowledgment in the book, praising your brilliance and creativity.

· Your contribution will be heralded throughout the land on several blogs, including my personal blog, website, Facebook and the Entangled Publishing blog.

· You will receive a signed copy of Shield of Fire and Kiss of the Betrayer when released.

· $50 gift card to Amazon

So let your creativity flow and name this character

· Female, approximately 29 years of age

· Sturdy and curvaceous, medium height, long brown hair and hazel eyes

· Profession: Prostitute, works the docks

· Private Life: Poor, Single mother with three children, 12, 4, and five months

· Redeeming Qualities: Strong, resourceful, has a good heart, would rather sell her body than accept charity, a good mother, fearless, smart, streetwise, rolls with the punches

· Less Redeeming Qualities: Stubborn, too curious for her own good, has associations with a lot of unsavory people.

· Significance in the book: This character is slated to become a major secondary character, appearing throughout the rest of the series

Okay people, name that character. I've received some great entries so far. This is going to be a tough one to judge!

--- Boone Brux

2012-02-03T10:56:00.000-09:00

Not Feelen the Luv

What the pustulated pox-marks on the drippy foreskin of a one-armed ogre piano player trying ta make a little chump change in the middle of town square would ya make of the last few months I’ve had?

I don’t think she luvs me anymore!

Maxine Mansfield that is.

I’m sooooooo alone.

What’s she been spending her time doing instead of paying attention to me? Well, that’s a good question. She’s been write…write…writing male on male…umm…stories.

And before ya ask, sigh, nope, I’m not even in it. I’m not even mentioned, can ya believe that? And, ta make matters worse, The Wild Rose Press gave her a stupid contract for it, so now I’ll never get her undivided attention again.

If I wasn’t immortal, I swear I’d go lay out in the snow until even my willy froze solid and fell off. Though with as impressive as my love muscle is, that might take quite awhile.

I guess I shouldn’t complain too much. At least she’s still doing the edits-that-never-end on my, I mean Uthiel and Briar’s story, Touched by the Magic.

But, damn’t, I want some ME time, I deserve it. Especially after all I’ve done for her.

Maybe I can get her attention back with a game. Perhaps a round or two of Hide-the-Sausage? Or…hehehe…Ride-um-Cowboy?

Sigh, the sacrifices a gnome makes for stardom! But, desperate times call for desperate measures, and as we all know, once ya go gnome, you’ll never again roam.

Leeky Shortz

Rogue Gnome Extraordinar

Think SMALL...and accomplish more!

2012-01-27T15:40:00.000-09:00

   Every year about Solstice time I have a sense of eagerness begin to build, then just after Christmas, I generally find a quiet time to reflect on the year past.

   That reflection can sometimes take the form of recrimination for projects languishing, phone calls not made or good intentions paving my personal road to hell. Sometimes. But being the optimist I am, that afore mentioned eagerness morphs into full blown enthusiasm for the coming year.
   I convince myself that I can see a clear and easy path through the latest project. That making a phone call and sending birthday cards on time is simply a matter of better organization.

   January first is the beginning of the rest of my life, a full and successful life. A life that finds my butt firmly planted in my chair, writing and ignoring the fire alarms. I usually find my unofficial resolutions teetering on the edge of the abyss of an overextended life and the lists of daily, weekly and monthly activities to be accomplished.

   So this January I’ve been reading about how to take baby steps, how to not be intimidated by large projects and most important how to slow down and think in small manageable blocks of time.
This year I’m going to try to ‘THINK SMALL’ and accomplish more. Does that work for you or do you thrive on fear and guilt?

---by DeNise Woods, author

World Book Night

2012-01-20T09:44:00.000-09:00

At the last AKRWA business meeting, I shared some tips from a recent Writers Digest article by Áine Greaney to “Reboot Your Writing Routine.” She suggested that writers create an artist statement, and we decided to write our own and present them at our January meeting.

My statement came fairly easily: I want to inspire women and young people as I entertain them with tales of old Alaska. That sums up what I write and why I write it. I hope to become published and share my stories with everyone. In the meantime, I’ll keep working on my craft and help readers where I can. Here’s one event we can support together: World Book Night.

I first came across this event in the 49 Writers blog. Here’s a blurb from their site: We need 50,000 book-loving volunteers to fan out across America on April 23, 2012! Just take 20 free copies of a book to a location in your community, and you just might change someone's life.
The goal is to give books to new readers, to encourage reading, to share your passion for a great book. The entire publishing, bookstore, library, author, printing, and paper community is behind this effort with donated services and time. And with a million free World Book Night paperbacks!

To learn more, and maybe become a giver yourself, go to http://www.us.worldbooknight.org/

This passes on the joy of reading, One of the best parts of teaching high school English was giving someone a book and watching them enjoy it. Sometimes I had a student say, “This is pretty cool, did they write any more?” and I knew they were hooked. How great it must feel to be the writer that hooked a kid on reading. I hope to do that some day.

Do you have an artist statement this year? Or a reading memory you’d like to share? Please feel free to comment.

--Lynn Lovegreen

Censorship, Rating Systems, and Book Banning

2012-01-08T17:39:00.003-09:00

About a year ago in an on-line critique group, I encountered a woman who wouldn't allow any R-rated material submitted for critique, PG-13 only. She refused to explain what she meant by R-rated or PG-13, and she wouldn't accept that the film-rating system doesn't apply to books.

Struggling to make sense of her restrictions, I researched film-rating systems of various countries. In the US, the Motion Picture Association of America rates movies. PG-13 can have no sex scenes what-so-ever, although torture and other forms of violence are acceptable. This rating was added specifically for movies such as Terminator and Indiana Jones, which are violent but geared toward a teenage and pre-teen audience. Some R-rate moves actually have little sex or violence. The King's Speech for example is rated R. It seems R actually means intended for adults regardless of the content. If this is so then for literary equivalents G means children, PG means middle grade, PG-13 means YA, R means general adult fiction, and NC-17 means erotica.

I suppose the major difference between film and fiction is that if a child manages to read the novel Clockwork Orange he or she is a genius, but it takes no particular skill for the child to view the story as a movie. I consider Clockwork Orange to be one of the greatest masterpieces of science-fiction language building. For the first three pages or so the prose has so many new words that story doesn’t make sense but, after that, the language comes off as seductive and beautiful. I'll admit I've never seen the film. I don’t want to encounter that kind of violence without the veil of words.

Another difference is that a reader can stop at any time, while a movie goer in a theater is in sense held captive for the duration of the film.
So the gal in the on-line critique group wanted to apply film standards to novels, ignoring the distinct difference between film and written fiction. I dropped out of the group and immediately wrote an erotic science-fiction novella. Don't tell me that I can't write about sex. I don't much go for violence, but sex is interesting. We humans sure have a bizarre way of producing more little humans.

I'm sending that novella, Sappho's Agency off to a publisher this very weekend. Despite erotic content it's the most political story I've ever written. I was raised Roman Catholic and have long struggled with the Church's teaching on sexuality. My bookshelf contains a well thumbed copy of the Catechism of the Catholic Church, written by Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger, now Pope Benedict XVI. I've read with interest the parts relating to the role of women. I'm interested in the Church's position on homosexuality, birth control, and marriage, and in particular the reasoning for these positions.

The Catholic Church holds that the primary purpose of sex is reproduction. Following from this premise, the Church concludes that homosexuality is wrong and that condoms should be used under no circumstances whatsoever. According to the Church, a person who engages in a homosexual act or uses a condom is selfish, hedonistic, and unnatural. I find this logic stunningly bizarre and therefore fascinating. If this logic were used consistently, the Church would be rallying against men who've had vasectomies, women who have hysterectomies, and against men who marry women who are infertile. Following this logic, only those who are physically capable of producing children should be allowed to marry and engage in intimacy. The rest of us must remain chaste and celibate.

In the writing of Sappho's Agency, my thoughts and frustration found an outlet. The story shows homosexuality and condoms being used with the intent of producing a child, and it shows other legitimate functions of sex such as nurturing of love between a couple, relief of pain, and sacramental expression of religious belief. I'd best explain that last one. The Catholic Church teaches that marriage between a man and a woman should mirror the relationship between God and the Church. Therefore, marriage should be limited to heterosexual couples and, within a marriage, the woman should be subservient to the man, thus maintaining a resemblance to the proper relationship between Church and God. Logically this is complete nonsense, but it makes sense religiously. When we love our spouses, we take part in something much larger, and so feel a sense of wholeness.

Following up on my interest in religion, politics, and erotic fiction, I researched the Index, more properly called the Index Librorum Prohibitorum, a list of written works prohibited by the Catholic Church. Among the notable included works is Justine by the Marquis de Sade. I'll admit I haven't read the novel, as it's likely to have a greater amount of sadism than I enjoy. The Marquis de Sade wrote the book on sadism and Justine is that book. My low tolerance for violence rears its ugly head again. However, I believe Justine is on the Index, not for violence or sex, but because of political content. If it were just a dirty or gory story, Justine would have been forgotten, but it criticizes the Catholic Church and, for this, it was banned and the author thrown into prison. Never mind that the man engaged in pedophilia, rape, torture, and abduction. These were not viewed as his crimes. He was banned and imprisoned for his philosophy, not for his violent acts against his fellow humans. Les Miserable was once on the Index as well, most likely for containing less than flattering views of priests. That's the best I can figure out anyway.

With trepidation I send my novella off to a publisher. At times, I fear I've gone too far, at other times I worry that my writing isn't erotic enough. Truth be told, I'm more interested in politics, society, and economics than I am in sex. In this my writing is very definitely science fiction in the tradition of Stranger in a Strange Land by Heinlein, The Left Hand of Darkness by Le Guin, or one of my favorites Ethan of Athos by Bujold.

Eve Marlinspike
writer of erotic science fiction

NEW YEAR RESOLUTIONS – Again?

2012-01-02T10:05:00.000-09:00

Resolution is a hateful word really. It’s down and dreary, and dusty. I looked up the definition of resolution and this is what I found.

Number 1: the process of resolving something such as a problem or dispute. Maybe if we didn’t make resolutions we wouldn’t have so many problems or disputes to resolve. All those weight loss resolutions make for some pretty foul moods. That’s it! I resolve to eat chocolate!

Number 2: a firm decision to do something. This one is a little better. I like making firm decisions. So I firmly decide to enjoy more chocolate with family and friends.

Number 3: firmness of mind or purpose. Okay, I can live with having a purpose.

Number 4: an answer to a problem. Wrong. Chocolate is always the answer.

Number 5: a formal expression of the consensus at a meeting arrived at after discussion and usually as the result of a vote. Huh? We’ll just skip this one. It makes my head hurt.

Number 6: the quality of detail offered by a TV or computer screen or a photographic image. Interesting, and my husband could give me a detailed report on the importance of this and why we need a TV that costs the price of a compact car. Chocolate is cheaper.

Number 7: the process of separating something such as a chemical compound or a source of light into its constituent part. Hmm. Skip.

Number 8: the disappearance or coming to an end of a medical symptom or condition. Couldn’t they have used a more exciting word for this?

Number 9: the musical progression from a dissonant to a consonant chord or note. Since I don’t play an instrument the only thing in this definition that connected was music. I need some Journey with my chocolate, or Queen. Add in Foreigner too.

Number 10: the point in a literary work when the conflict is resolved. As a writer, I resolve to like this one. Though it does mean the story is coming to an end for my imaginary friends.

After reviewing the definitions above, I think we should resolve resolutions. Do we really need them? Now goals are a different ball of yarn. Some will say that resolutions and goals are the same. No, they are not.

Read the above definition of resolution and then compare it to words associated with goals: score, aim, successful attempt at hitting, kicking, throwing, or slapping a puck into the goal, and finish line. I love all these words. Much more doable, positive, inspiring, and powerful. Come on, slapping? You betcha.

I loved a friend’s idea where instead of resolutions she builds a bonfire and burns what didn’t work the year before. Add marshmallows, graham crackers, and CHOCOLATE and make it a party.

The month of January is depressing enough what with the bills of December, income taxes coming due, the dark and bleakness of winter that seems to have no end in sight (this is especially true in Alaska). So I suggest we set up our goals to aim successfully at the finish line. Go out there and hit, kick, throw, or slap until you reach your goal! Then celebrate with chocolate.

Since there is power in putting goals in print, I’d love to hear about the goals you’ve set or reasons you aren’t setting any.

Tiffinie Helmer

Shield of Fire by Boone Brux

2011-12-17T07:15:00.000-09:00

I'm so excited about my new book release, Shield of Fire. It's been a long time in the making, but we finally birthed this baby and it's on sale now at most online retailers. Here's a peek inside.

Blurb:

Protecting humans is the Bringers’ duty. Sending demons to the Shadow World is their pleasure.

In one night, Ravyn’s life plunges from barely tolerable to deadly. Forced to flee the only home she’s known, she stumbles headlong into the clutches of Icarus, a powerful demon intent on stealing her powers. Unfortunately for him, she has no intention of cooperating.

When Rhys realizes the woman he’s rescued from the Bane Demon is no mere human, his obligation as a Bringer dictates he protect and train her in the ways of his people. But he’s unprepared for the intense desire he feels for the fiery Ravyn. To surrender to his need may mean her death.
As the Demon King’s desire for ultimate power escalates, fathers are slated against sons, and foes are made allies. The Bane threat upon them, Rhys and Ravyn must quest to unite the last of the Bringers—and explore a passion too powerful to ignore.

Excerpt:

Chapter One

Menda Abbey, Itta Territory, Inness
One Thousand Years after the Bane War

The demon’s gaze narrowed. “Let me see her.”

Beautiful and horrifying, Icarus moved toward Brother Powell with frightening grace. Sinewy muscles rippled under taut, black skin as he prowled toward the crumbled wall of the abbey. His leathery wings scraped the tree branches overhead and waves of ebony hair, banded with rings of gold, cradled two spiraling horns that jutted upward.
Powell glanced away, refusing to gaze into the mesmerizing, reptilian eyes.

The demon’s deep purr poured over him. “What troubles you, Brother? Are you not happy to see me?”

The monk ignored the question and swiped the cold rain from his eyes. He held the hissing torch higher to reveal a young woman. She stood unnaturally still, compelled by the monk’s hypnosis—a spell taught to him by the demon. Her thin shift clung to her bony frame, and her dull eyes stared ahead. Angela had been lovely once, but like so many, she hadn’t been woman enough to withstand the honor of his attentions. They never were, always crying and pleading to be left alone. Lucky for them, the Demon Bane preferred their sacrifices pure.

“This is not what I asked for.” The deadly calm of Icarus’s voice belied the danger of his statement. “Where is the other woman—the gifted one?”

“In her cell. She doesn’t trust me.” Powell stroked Angela’s limp, blonde hair. “But she’ll not be able to resist the cries of her closest friend.”

“For your sake, monk, I hope you are right.” Icarus held out his hand. “Come to me.”
The compulsion whispered past Powell, sweeping across his skin with the promise of pleasure. He slipped his hand under his robe and adjusted his erection.

The demon’s call slithered toward Angela and wrapped around her like a sensual net. Before the force could ensnare him as well, Powell released his hold and backed away. She glided forward.

He watched, immobilized with morbid fascination. Her progress faltered when she reached the holy ground’s boundaries. He leaned toward Angela, willing her to cross the invisible barrier.
“Come to me,” Icarus repeated.

Weak of mind and body, she lumbered forward through the opening in the wall and away from the protection of the abbey’s sanctified ground.

The demon stood before her and grasped her frail arm. With the smooth curve of his talon, he caressed Angela’s cheek.
She didn’t move.

Powell cringed, excited and repulsed at the same time. He ached for a taste of the power Icarus would give him one day.
“So pure,” Icarus crooned. He trailed his talon down her neck. “So sweet.”

Powell squeezed his holy medallion, its ornate embellishments biting deep into his skin. The pain kept him present and protected against the call of the Bane, a call he wanted to answer. Riveted, he held the torch higher, trying to shed more light on the black demon.

Icarus slid his claw lower, coming to rest between Angela’s breasts. His energy pulsed and reached for its prey. The compulsion grazed Powell’s mind. The medallion slipped from his grasp, the chain catching on his fingers to hang loose. Forgotten.

“Awaken, little bird, and let me see your fear,” Icarus whispered.

Like a parting veil, Angela’s deadened expression cleared. She gasped, frozen by the sight of the towering demon before her. She twisted and fought for her freedom. Bare heels dug into the soggy earth, but the slick grass provided no traction. Icarus jerked her hard, his hold unbreakable.

“No!” Her scream shattered the silence of the night, its echoes hanging in the air like a heavy mist.
He pressed his fingers against her heart and pricked her delicate skin.

She convulsed, her strangled cry dying in her throat. With whispers as soft as the lightest breeze, the silvery essence of her soul sighed and bled from her body. Gossamer threads slithered around Icarus’s hand like small, white snakes, encircling his arm and swirling along the planes of his rounded biceps in an achingly slow, erotically sublime dance. The demon tilted his head and closed his eyes. Angela’s shimmering purity crept up his neck and hovered at his lips. He inhaled and drew her in, stiffening as if in the throes of passion, absorbing every delicate wisp.

The intimate union between predator and prey mesmerized Powell. He crept forward, forgetting the danger. The seductive and deadly act held a perverse beauty. Powell stroked himself, dragging the rough material of his robe over his erection, losing himself in The Taking. Time had no place; the tap, tap of rain on the leaves the only disruption brave enough to break through the reticence of the night.

When the sparkling vapor faded around her heart, Icarus retracted his talons and released his hold. Angela’s body slumped to the ground, dead. He stretched and smiled, his fangs glimmering in the torchlight. “That’s better.”
Powell’s heavy breathing punctuated the quiet. His body quivered from the demon’s feral presence. As the pleasurable effect began to fade, he opened his senses and scrambled to ingest the lingering scraps of Bane essence. Its pure power raced through his body and filled his veins with an intoxicating fire.

Icarus bent and scooped up Angela’s body. Four powerful strides brought him to the abbey’s border. He heaved his burden at Powell. The monk shrieked and jumped back, his euphoric haze evaporating. Bones snapped as the body landed in a crumpled heap at his feet. Bile rose in his throat. For a fraction of a second, remorse pawed at him, but, just as quickly, the sentiment disappeared.

“Bring me the other—now.” Icarus’s wings unfurled and stretched behind him. “Do not fail me, monk.” He crouched and pinned Powell with a yellow stare. “Or I won’t be as kind to you as I was to the girl.”

Powell glanced at the broken body at his feet and swallowed hard. Meeting the demon’s stare, he nodded.
With a powerful leap, Icarus launched into the sky and was instantly swallowed by the darkness.

B & N Amazon Website Blog

Thanks for stopping by! Boone

…

Romantic Science Fiction

2011-12-09T00:00:00.002-09:00

by Tam Linsey

Genres have been on my mind lately. Not just genres, but subgenres. Do I write "science fantasy" or "science fiction"? "apocalyptic" or "dystopic"? "science fiction romance" (SFR) or "romantic science fiction" (RSF)?

This last pair is what I want to talk about today, because I didn't know there was a difference until recently. Why do I care? Because I've had several agents who represent science fiction request my manuscript, only to pass on representation because there was "too much science" in my story.

Too much science?

How can science fiction readers not want the science explained? In my opinion, just setting characters onto another world and throwing in a space ship or two doesn't make something science fiction. There must be verisimilitude – credibility that such a world could exist. That is where the science part of science fiction becomes important.

I was baffled by the rejections.

So I did what any good scientist would do; I researched and developed a theory about why these agents didn't like the science.

Why are readers these days okay with novels not explaining how things work? This is where the distinction between SFR and RSF becomes important. Although these agents claim to represent science fiction, they are big names in the romance industry. As romance readers, they want the story – be it paranormal, contemporary, historical, or science fiction – to be about a relationship first and foremost. Any speculative, otherworldly, or scientific elements of the story must be less important to the plot than the romance. In fact, the story they want could not exist without the romance. The science is taken for granted. Science Fiction has become part of our culture. Other writers have already done all the speculation for us. Who hasn't seen an episode of Star Trek, or a movie with aliens or space ships? The proof is already out there. Why prove it again?

Most romance readers don't care about the science. They just want a really good story about a relationship.

They want Science Fiction Romance.

I like romance. Love is what binds characters together, and binds readers to my characters. But love doesn't dominate the story in science fiction. My manuscript, Botanicaust, has a love interest relationship, but the plot could proceed without the romance. In fact, it wouldn't be too hard to rewrite the novel and remove the romance altogether.

But take out the science, and Botanicaust falls apart.

I write Romantic Science Fiction.

See the difference? It is all a matter of where the emphasis lies. The rejections are because I've been targeting the wrong readers.

Do you like to know how the world works in the book you are reading? Or do you prefer to take for granted that things are the way the author says they are?

Reposted from Romancing the Genres.

© Tam Linsey, 2011. All rights reserved.

Book Reviews - Bookin' It Reviews: A Day in the Life of Rachel Dahlrumple

2011-11-17T10:27:00.000-09:00

Book Reviews - Bookin' It Reviews: A Day in the Life of Rachel Dahlrumple: Bookin' It Reviews is proud to welcome AKRWA author Shea McMaster here today! She's here today with Rachel Dahlrumple, the heroine from her romantic suspense...

Story Logic and the Kitchen Sink

2011-11-04T12:51:00.002-08:00

I woke up this morning and got hit in the head by a kitchen sink.
Er, let me explain that.
I used to write stories for The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. Edward Ferman – the editor and one of the truest gentlemen ever to grace the offices of publishing – once told me that my stories contained everything but the kitchen sink. Understandably worried – I was feeding a family of four by writing stories – I asked him if that was bad. He said, “No, it just may be your best asset.” (Which could be avoiding the question, if you think about it.)
So I began taking his advice to heart.
I began throwing in the kitchen sink.
*

To explain that, abide me while I switch hats to that of a professor, which is my “regular job.”
Begin with a pop quiz.
Answer the following. Neither is a trick question.
1. What is the image on the right?
2. Which item of the following does not fit with the others? hammer, saw, house, screwdriver.
◊
The answers:
In the 1930s, when working with illiterate peasants in Uzbekistan, a great Russian educational theorist, Alexander Luria, made a startling discovery: People who cannot read cannot think abstractly.
This is not to imply, which Western culture unwittingly does with its typical ethnocentrism, that oral folk – nonliterates in Western tradition – somehow are sick, being ill-literate. Rather, oral folk think in concrete, real-world ways. Technically, their thinking is called “situational logic.”
The Uzbekistani peasants could not recognize the circle as a circle. They would say, “It’s the top of a water jar” or “It’s the end of a log.” And there was only a 25 percent chance that they would decide that house does not fit. They lacked the ability to group items by traits. Rather than realizing that three of the items are tools, they might say that saw does not fit. When asked why, they would answer, “I left it outside the house.”
Many literate people see such thinking as silly, superficial, or sophomoric. They do not realize that Western thinking is the result of the written word – a new change of human consciousness and thus not the result of basal intelligence – and that it has limited usefulness.
Probably as a byproduct of the Greeks’ greatest invention, the only true alphabet ever created, the human mind changed during the first millennium B.C. This new type of thinking so infused the Western mind, especially after Greek thinking and Christianity became linked through the Gospels, that even how we think of cognition reflects our love affair with the written word. We talk about context and being literal.
That mind change makes it difficult for Western peoples to think holistically, to see all the variables that a situation involves. Until the computer began to change everything (and if you think that your kids don’t think like you, then you’re probably more right than you realize), Western peoples thought lineally, sequentially, akin to chapters in a book.
But how we think was not the only byproduct of the alphabet. The other was a change in what form of logic is elevated as being important. This change is so pervasive that most Western peoples do not even realize that there is another form of logic.

The logic the Greeks’ love of abstraction produced was the syllogism, the most famous is the one Plato published: All men are mortal, Socrates is a man, therefore Socrates is mortal.
◊
So what does this all have to do with a kitchen sink?
Aristotle was Plato’s star pupil. Aristotle disliked the direction in which Greek intellectual culture was going. He pointed out that syllogisms do not work in the real world. If Plato were right, Aristotle said, then the following is true: Women who are pregnant are pale. This woman is pale. Therefore this woman is pregnant.
By contrast, Aristotle advocated what is technically called “enthymematic logic.” It combines situational logical and syllogistic logic. Also known as evidentiary logic, it combines Western thinking and non-Western thinking. Expressed as a triad, Aristotle said, it analyzes a situation and then expresses it in a syllogistic-like form: Some women who are pregnant are pale. This woman is pale. Therefore this woman is pregnant.
However, the Greeks so worshipped the syllogism that Theophrastus, who inherited Aristotle’s school, threw out the enthymeme – which Aristotle had called “the heart of communication” – and steered the school back to the syllogism. Ever since, the syllogism has been what most Western people think of as “being logical,” even though it is a school-learned, artificial construct, rather than a natural way of thinking.
To make matters worse, in tenth century Byzantium, Greek monks copying over Aristotle’s manuscripts were so imbued with love of the syllogism that they assumed Aristotle was wrong. So they changed the master’s manuscript. Today, if you look up enthymeme, the dictionary will tell you that it’s “a truncated syllogism” or “a syllogism missing a premise.” Neither definition is correct, and what was perhaps the most powerful tool ever invented for communications fell by the wayside.
Skip ahead 2,300 years. About a decade ago, Walter Fisher – one of the finest minds working today in communications theory – announced that narrative, rather than the syllogism, is the basis of human logic. Narrative is so fundamental to human understanding, he says, that he calls us Homo narrans.
But narrative is not story. Narrative is usually just a retold incident. There is a basic difference between narrative and story. That’s why most people cannot write story even if they have an excellent ability to string words together. They confuse the two concepts.
◊
In the Western tradition, story consists of a logical attempt to solve or resolve an emotional problem. The “logic” is not syllogistic. It is diachronic.
Diachronic logic is telescopic. It unfolds like an old-fashioned spyglass or, for us Alaskans, like a cup used in camping. Unless it’s experimental fiction, then it consists of a series of (false) solutions the protagonist attempts until at last she arrives at a final possibility.
The reader can look back and see that everything was planned, that nothing was extraneous, that everything led irrevocably to that final, satisfying conclusion. In terms of communication theory, such diachronic logic is narrative expressed as enthymematic logic. In romance fiction, that becomes Girl falls in love with boy, boy loses girl because he’s a dunderhead, girl must resolve the situation and bring them back together.
◊
Except I push the envelope. I stretch the logic. I am constantly upset with myself for doing this, because it adds a thick layer of difficulty to my writing life, but I seem unable to think otherwise. Or maybe I just can’t say no, even though I am professionally trained in enthymematic logic and thus should know better.
It happened again this morning.
I am writing what started as a simple book in which an American physician right out of med school goes to Madagascar as a volunteer with Doctors Without Borders and falls in love with a Malagasy primatologist. He is dedicated to saving the aye-aye, an ugly but highly affectionate lemur that is being slaughtered because of the superstition that if it points at you, then you or a family member will die soon. The two run into difficulties, but through her efforts they resolve the difficulties, and they live happily ever after among the lemurs.
All fine, I think – except that other entities, all of which are real people and/or events, have demanded to be let into the mix:
A Hungarian Count who escaped from Siberia by seducing the warden’s daughter and stealing two Russian ships, a queen who was so truly evil that she came back fifty years after she died and people danced in the streets until they died of exhaustion, a member of the Madagascar Mafia, and the fact that Madagascar is the world’s worst ecological disaster.
All the writing advice I have read has said to avoid side streams and alleys where research can take you. But every time I have done so, my stories have gone unnoticed. And those times when I have finaled for or won major awards have been when I opened the doors and embraced everything except the kitchen sink, working and reworking the plot until all the pieces that caught my interest are there and yet all (hopefully) contributed to pushing the plot to its climax.
But once in a while, the kitchen sink has come flying through the door as well, demanding to be included.
It happened again this morning.
According to advice I have gotten from essays, blogs, and friends, heroines in romance should not be severely flawed. Their hearts can be broken, but the pieces are all there. It just takes Mr. Right and the heroine’s gumption and often all the king’s horses and all the kings’ men to put her heart back together again.
This morning, though, my heroine told me that at age thirteen she saw her mother drown and now, at twenty-six, the young woman can engage in professional relationships – but personal ones allude her. She functions well in the office but is dysfunctional when she’s alone. Unknown to others in the clinic where she works, her smile is always outward, rarely inward. She is physically beautiful but psychologically misshaped.
So is the story still within the environs of romantic fiction?
I don’t know.
And it scares me.

©2011 by George Guthridge

Heaving Bosoms

2011-10-22T17:57:00.003-08:00

Most historical writers could probably write a Thesis Paper on the corset. They look pretty sexy, but in reality they were seriously constricting to the point of creating health problems. The reason women fainted so often or swooned was because the corset restricted their breathing. With only the top part of your lungs able to fill with air, the constricted lower parts of the lungs filled with phlegm. It also created other catastrophic health problems due to the pressure exerted on the internal organs.

These days we are lucky girls, our corsets are made with plastic boning, instead of things like steel and Baleen from the throats of Whales. Most of us don’t have to wear a corset day in and day out either, however many of us wear Bras. The Brassiere is one of the sleek and beautiful Granddaughters of the corset, the girdle another.

We have a plethora in the types of Bras available; the rocket bra, the push up bra, the water bra, the padded bra, the seamless bra, the U plunge bra, the sports bra and so on. They come in fabulous colors, materials and beautiful designs. Even underwire bras have little spring loads at the ends of the wire for easier movement in the design. I think that people that design bras must be structural engineers.

There are a lot of us running around in the wrong sized bra. Your breast shape changes not just over the years, but over the monthly cycle as well. Also weight gain and weight loss can render a bra that once fit – not so fitting. I hear pregnancy can totally change the landscape. An ill fitted bra can give you bad posture and or dig into your skin. Not to mention sometimes it just doesn’t look right. Many department stores have ladies in lingerie that can measure you and give you a pretty good assessment of what bra size is best. If you haven’t done this before, I say give it a whirl, make a day of it with your girls.
If you can, only wear your bra for 12 hours a day. I even hold this rule for tight clothing like jeans or socks. If something is pressing into your flesh hard enough to leave an imprint don’t wear it all day. Your body has to have the space to pump all the precious fluids you are filled with. If it is uncomfortable for you to let the girls be free, try wearing a spandex/cotton tee shirt a size smaller.
Another thing I also encourage readers to do is a breast exam. You can Google Breast exam and find great information, even Youtube instructional videos, there is a good one by a gorgeous, beauty name Olivia. I know the ideal is once a month, I have not been so diligent, I am going to have to pencil it in my calendar -like a date with my girls from now on. Someone might discourage it later but I like to use my favorite lotion. Make the exam a beauty treatment too. Concubines for Chinese Emperors used rollers made of Jade to massage their breasts for optimum beauty. I imagine this was also really good for moving fluids in the lymph tissues well.

One more thing while we’re on the subject - don’t forget to get your mammogram if you are of that age or certain risk factor. I know, I know, I just had one last week and it wasn’t comfortable. But I gotta say it can’t be as bad for me, as it is for the men who have to have that done on their testicles. I give it up to them, big applause for the strength to get through that. I look forward to the day, when some blessed genius designs a comfortable, highly accurate mammogram screening.
So while some of you are donning your saucy pirate wench corset this Halloween, be glad it’s not made of steel and choking your innards. I’m sure you’ll look very sexy!
October is Breast cancer awareness month. Be aware and share with your friends- Love your girls and take good care of them. Aye Mateys, have a rousin’ All Hallows Eve!

Carmen Williams

The Theme is Travel

2011-10-14T17:18:00.008-08:00

In the near future, I've got plane trips and blog tours. It's enough to send me into a tizzy. What has to be done before I leave for Mexico next week? Two weeks in Puerto Vallarta, lounging about breathing in the sea air, storing up Vit D the natural way, and doing my best to just hang loose.

And yes, I'll be taking my laptop. The mini one. I'm torn between hoping there's readily available internet or praying there isn't. After all, what better excuse to totally goof off? Sorry, but I just can't get to the internet easily.

Part of my goal is to get a really good handle on the next book in a series I'm writing. Maybe even start another one. But even more pressing, the day after I return I have a new release!

November 7 is the debut of my long awaited Romantic Suspense novel, Rachel Dahlrumple, by Shea McMaster. (That would be Morgan's sweeter side. The good twin, as it were.)

November 7 also is the launch date of a two week blog tour, celebrating the release of Rachel Dahlrumple. Or Rachel as the book is affectionately known.

So here's the schedule. There will be a quiz later, and I'll be asking for people to drop by.

Nov 7: Romance with an Attitude Blog: Breaking Writer's Block
Nov 8: Megan Johns Invites Interview
Nov 9: Carrie Ann Ryan Blog: Getting Over Betrayal. Fiction vs Real Life. Is there a difference?
Nov 10: Romance in the Backseat Blog: How does being a writer affect you as a reader?
Nov 11: Laurie's Thoughts & Reviews Interview
Nov 14: Good Family Reads Blog: How to find Good Critique Partners and Be One in Return
Nov 16: Words of Wisdom from the Scarf Princess Blog: I'm working on a topic now.
Nov 17: Bookin' It Reviews Blog: A day in the life of Rachel Dahlrumple
Nov 18: My Odd Little World Interview

As of this time, I'm only about half done writing the blogs. The interviews are done and I've only just begun to gather things to pack for my trip.

With all this traveling in the near future, both live and digitally, I'm feeling a bit frazzled and have started a check list.

Snow tires on car. Check. (It will snow any day now. Any day. There were ice crystals falling from the sky yesterday.)
Swimsuit, cover-up and hat - because I'm a red head who has been hiding from the sun for the past 6 years - Check.
Launch tour dates set. Check.
Sunscreen. Still need to buy.
Books for trip, both paperback and ebook. Almost check. Have the first four books of the Game of Thrones to read, in addition to several other selections.
Interviews written. Check.
Sandals and flip flops ready. Check.
Shorts and tops. Check.
Sundresses. Check.
Blogs written. Well, two down... not even close to check.

Ah, the list, it never ever ends. How do you cope with traveling? I do it so rarely, it's all one big adventure until I get to the airport. Lines. Pat downs. Worrying about what will be stolen from my suitcase once it leaves my hand. Long, long, long hours of sitting. Twenty hours from start to destination, if there are no delays.

Here's hoping the destination is worth the journey!

Morgan O'Reilly / Shea McMaster

Web Page

"Oh, I don't read."

2011-10-01T06:58:00.001-08:00

A few days ago, I was chatting with a young woman who expressed an interest in being an author. We had talked about all the typical stuff: you have to write in order to be a writer; make sure you finish your project; have a lot of patience and a thick skin. She’d seemed to be solid and on track, until I asked her what the best book was that she’d read in the last year was. As an answer, she shrugged, waved her hand, and said “Oh, I don’t read.”
…
…
…
*crickets*

For a moment, all I could do was blink at her. Speechless. Completely speechless. I couldn’t for the life of me understand why she would want to be a writer if she didn’t even like to read.
See, any of us who love to write, loved to read first. Every author I know fell in love with the words, and the stories, and the story tellers. We each have the author(s) who captured our fancy and made us think I want to do this (Andrew Greeley and Nora Roberts, in case you’re wondering). We love to read as much – and sometimes more – than we love to write.
Is writing a cool profession? Oh, yeah. Not even going to try to lie. The other day, I was sitting outside, enjoying some late-season sun, reading a book, when a neighbor stopped by. With a smile, she called over “I thought you were working today!” I laughed along with her and decided to let it go, but truth of the matter is I was working. Reading other authors’ works is indeed part of my job. My first editor sent me several of Lucy Monroe’s books in order for me to notice how she developed her characters and resolved conflicts. My first agent had me reading category romances, to get a feel for how concise a story must be to be told in 50,000 words.
In spite of that, writing is hard work. It’s a skill, something that can be learned and honed. Starting with natural talent is hugely helpful, of course, but it doesn’t stop there. Instead, we work on how to develop characters, write fight scenes, build tension. We spend hours agonizing over our critique partners’ notes. We read dialogue out loud and study reactions in front of mirrors to literally see what we’re trying to describe. We pace, we bitch, we grind our teeth, and figuratively beat our heads against our desks trying to come up with the perfect turn of phrase. Our friends, significant others, and colleagues have learned “five more minutes…” actually means “go ahead without me, because we’re looking at hours before I can walk away from this scene.” When we’re writing, we stress over the words. When we aren’t writing, we stress over the lack of words. In between those two extremes are a plethora of other reasons to stress. Most of the authors I know have to squeeze writing time in and around a scheduled day job. It can be a heart-wrenching and all-consuming profession, and that’s before we put the finished product out there for Monday morning quarterbacking from total strangers. Why anyone would choose it when they don’t love the end result is beyond me. Except…
On this day in particular, I happened to be sitting on a deck overlooking the truly magnificent Priest Lake, in Coolin, Idaho. I have written all over the state of Alaska, from Kenai to Prudhoe Bay. I started a book in Mexico and finished it in Connecticut. Once people find out I’m a writer, they answer questions and tell me stories that they wouldn’t otherwise dream of telling a stranger. And let’s be honest; you cannot beat the writer’s commute.
Now, I still don’t understand why someone would choose to be a writer if they don’t love to read. I figure that would be akin to becoming an elementary school teacher when you don’t like kids. The idea of being an author is very different from the reality of being an author. But I will admit, I have been reminded of the allure, and that was good for me. There is nothing easy about this job. At the same time, if you love it – love reading the words, love writing the words, love it all – writing can indeed be worth it. Worth all of it.

--Pauline Trent

The Summer I was Twelve

2011-09-19T17:43:00.001-08:00

Two Life Lessons I Learned the Summer I Was Twelve.

1) Don't ride your pony on the boardwalk.

I grew up in the Ozark Mountains, back when that was a remote place to live, similar in some ways to how the Alaska bush country is now. The nearest neighbors to our tiny house were down a fair distance down a narrow dirt road: two miles in one direction, and four miles the other way.

When I was twelve, I rode my bareback pony to the nearest town called Morrow, which was ten miles away. We went at a gallop most of the way, and when I arrived, sticky horsehair clung to my tan legs. My long hair was so tangled, my fingers got stuck when I shoved it back. I threw my shoulders back and let my bare feet swing in time with my pony's strides. I was proud of myself, ten miles was a long way to ride by myself!

The store had a marvelous boardwalk that ran the entire front it. I couldn't resist forcing my pony to climb up on it. Clompty-clomp. Back and forth. Hop off the boardwalk. Hop back on the boardwalk. Pete's hoof beats echoed with joyful magic--until Mr. Reed sprang out of his store and thumped my pony in the butt with a broom.

I stayed on Pete's back through his amazing circus pony sideways leap off the boardwalk into the middle of the street. A slow-moving car stopped short of running into us and honked, which didn't help Pete's mood. He charged into town yards, head tucked to his chest to evade the bit.

"Whoa Pete! Whoa!" He pinned his ears back and tore through grass and flowers, throwing hoof-shaped dirt clods behind him.

People yelled and shook fists at us, "Who are you! I'll call your mother!" Like I'd answer that while clinging for dear life to the back of a pissed-off pony. (Not that I'd answer at any other time, either.) It took a mile, stampeding back the way we'd come, for me to get Pete under control.

I never rode my pony on the boardwalk again, but did we ever return to town? Let's just say you can't trust a twelve-year-old girl and her pony to stay out of trouble.

2) Take care of your shoes, because your feet need them.

The summer I was twelve, I had no shoes at all. My mother, peeved at me for destroying the cheap canvas sneakers she always bought me, the only pair of shoes I owned, told me I could do without shoes that summer and learn to appreciate what her hard-earned money purchased.

This didn't seem fair. I was a country girl. I fed livestock, chased escaping pigs, rode my pony and went hunting. These activities can be hard on any kind of shoes, but three-dollar sneakers don't stand a chance.

Okay, so shoeless that summer, one day I chased a baby rabbit out into a small field that'd been brush hogged, which is how Arkansas farmers clear fields of weeds and bushes so grass can grow between the rocks.

When I was out in the middle of the field, I stopped to notice two things: the baby rabbit had disappeared and the bottoms of my feet were on fire. Dry and splintered brambles lay so thick on the ground no grass had managed to grow, to push up through the graveyard of briars. Some of the branch-sized stems were studded with barbs nearly as big as my little finger. How I'd managed to run into the middle of this field of dead thorns without excruciating pain is a mystery to this day.

The only way out was the way I'd come in.

Thorns impaled the bottoms of my feet with every step. I had new revelations concerning the suffering of Jesus Christ and his crown of thorns.

I moaned, squealed, and wept as every step reaped thorns piercing and sticking to the soles of my feet. I stood on one foot and lifted the other high to remove a harvest of briars. I must have resembled a wading crane--that cried.

After I got out, I sat for a while on the edge of the field and cradled my screaming, bleeding feet. Then walked a mile back home on bleeding feet through the woods and down the gravel road.

I learned to take off my shoes while running through mud puddles or feeding farm animals in the rain. They lasted forever, that next pair of shoes, until my big toe ate its way out the dirty canvas tip. Even my thrifty mother could see I needed a new pair before the condition of them fatally embarrassed her.

Today, I will sometimes look in my closet and count the pairs of shoes in there. And every one cost more than three dollars.

Veronica

Is Romance Writing Hazardous to Your Romance?

2011-09-09T19:49:00.001-08:00

We all know the guy is the romantic genius in any romance worth its HEA. Our Hero, however alpha, knows his way around a florist’s shop, reads minds, and may not clean bathrooms but sure can scrub his girl’s back (among other things). But, I’m here to talk about real life. C’mon, no guy can read minds. Very few pick up flowers anywhere but Wal-Mart, if they remember the flowers at all. And if there’s a card to be had in the house, it’s been purchased by the girl.

Real women lament all the time a lack of (consistent) romance in their lives.

I’ve also heard from multiple reliable sources that men whose wives read romance reap many additional benefits and are much happier in, well, all areas than the average guy. In other words, if the wife does the research, the man wins again.

Men=Mars/Women=Venus stuff aside, it’s all good. Women may whine but, secretly, we like being the keepers of the keys to perfect romance.

But (there’s always a ‘but’) notice I said the happy men belong to women who read romance. I’ve come to believe the husband/partner/SO of someone who writes romance is in a different kettle of rosebuds altogether. For him, his woman might keep all the keys to romance, but she’s using them to open some other door – usually a door on page 147 or so.

I and, by some reciprocal property, DH, had that truth driven home this week when we celebrated our 37th anniversary. Don’t get me wrong, neither of us has ever forgotten the date, but back in the days before I was a real writer I was big time into special placemats for dinner, a steak or his fave meal on the table, and always a card and a gift on the plate. I unlocked the romance door and threw it open all the way.

Now I write romance. And along came September 7, 2011. DH worked overnight on the 6th and I was happily getting my H/h cozy. At 12:02 a.m. my phone beeped and there it was—The Romantic Text: “Happy Anniversary. I love you.” Awwwww. I didn’t feel too guilty until I woke up the next morning, DH sound asleep after his graveyard shift, and I found a card on my computer keyboard. “You are the love of my life,” he’d written. And my second thought (after a double “awwwwww”) was, “Dang, dang, dang, I KNEW I forgot something.”

Sad.

I’ll jump ahead here and tell you I did get a card (a very perfect card—seriously), and I managed to disguise the fact that I’d forgotten. But that isn’t the point. The point is – writing romance is becoming hazardous to my romance health. I don’t know if that’s true for any of you. Maybe writing romance is hazardous to some other aspect of your life. I wish I had a solution for myself – and for you. I don’t – this is just my newest epiphany. I’m thinking it’ll all come down to some great truth I already know in my heart-of-hearts like: learn to prioritize or practice self-discipline. Until I figure it out the only piece of advice I have is this: find someone who, after 37 years, has seen you in so many stages he couldn’t care less whether it’s you or he who opens the romance door. After all –I guess that’s the real definition of Happily Ever After.

How ‘bout you? Does writing throw any aspect of your life outta whack? If so, what do you do? If not, I’m coming to breathe the air at your house.

Liz Selvig

GO DEEP Release

2011-09-02T06:00:00.000-08:00

When the first book in my Wild, Alaska series came out, quite a few people wanted to know if such a place existed. A town whose cure for cabin fever is a mid-winter festival called Wild Nights, during which “anything goes, nothing counts?” Where is it? they asked. Show me on the map.

Well, sad to say, Wild is a fictional town. Wild Nights does not exist, although it’s probably similar to Mardi Gras or any given night in Las Vegas. But my version of this concept has an extra punch. After a few months of winter, trapped inside by snowdrifts, your typical Alaska resident needs a break. If the cold doesn’t get to you, the darkness probably does. Where my husband and I live it gets dark at 4:30 in the dead of winter, and light again around 10:30.

So how does one deal with the cold, the dark, the endless snow? For some it might be a trip to Hawaii. For others, a weekend of letting off steam does the trick. That’s where Wild Nights comes in.

My Wild stories always involve a turning point in someone’s life. It’s not just a wild and crazy night—there’s an emotional element to the story as well. In GO DEEP, Beth and Gavin Thomason are a married couple who love each other, but are virtual strangers sexually speaking. Here’s the blurb, and if you’d like to read an excerpt you can click here.

Go Deep comes out on September 7 from Ellora's Cave. And here in Alaska, winter’s already breathing down our necks ...

Go Deep
Juniper Bell

A standalone sequel to Go Wild.

Beth is the shy, dreamy type. No one guesses at the wild sexual thoughts she hides behind that quiet façade. She doesn’t even share her secret longings with her husband.

Gavin loves his wife, but he’s tired of living in a marriage in which neither he nor Beth reveal their true desires. When Gavin sees Beth’s response to an erotic bondage photo in her framing shop, he jumps at the opportunity to break through her barriers.

He accepts an invitation to a showcase match for the amateur hockey team he coaches during Wild Nights, the infamous winter festival during which “anything goes, nothing counts.” But he’s opened a sensual Pandora’s box—Beth has some surprises of her own. When she meets Eagle, a free-spirited Wild resident, she knows he’s the perfect man to help enact her erotic fantasies. And once they go deep, there’s no going back.

Thanks for reading!

Juniper

JuniperBell.com

"Leeky Friday"

2011-08-26T16:03:00.001-08:00

Just Another Leeky Friday Morning

“What the stinky lint and abandoned food particles trapped in the deep dark recesses of the belly-button of a naky ogress trollop trying ta entice a group of poor, unsuspecting halflings into her lair, do ya make of the week I've had?
“She's impossible ta live with, I tell ya! I think she's finally lost her mind. What little she had left that is. Maxine Mansfield has been spending her days lately, stumbling from room to room mumbling in what can only be described as, an edit induced trance.
“Just keeps repeating over and over to herself and the bird who now keeps his head down and shivers at the back of his cage, 'I will not use the same word twice in the same chapter, let alone the same sentence. I will start to no longer be a passive writer. I started to begin my sentences and paragraphs with the words start, started, began, begin, as if to, but I now know better. I will, no longer treat comma's, as my personal, slaves. I will insert action into my dialogues, and dialogue into my action, and I will use the word insert, only once in my sex scenes. I will not be so sick of my hero and heroine that I hope they die horribly gruesome deaths, and I (Will) meet my deadline.'
“Gotta admit, I'm kinda scared for her, and I'm usually fearless. Is there perhaps a writers intervention hotline I can call?”
Leeky Shortz!

Tharz Gold in Them Thar Hills... The Value of On-site Research

2011-08-18T03:27:00.036-08:00

I completely understand the proverbial statement: you don’t have to jump off a bridge to know it will hurt when you hit the water. Like everyone, I’ve jumped off some very high bridges in my life knowing full well there would be consequences but just defiant enough to jump despite the warning. Those jumps were not futile attempts at self-inflicting pain. What I learned from those experiences is that you do sometime have to jump to be able to differentiate the quality of the experience. You can watch someone jump and say to yourself, “Holy crap, that’s gonna hurt.” But if you jump yourself, you gain an entirely different perspective on the way down! Your experience is totally encompassing beginning with the roots of understanding the process and consequences then radiating through your entire body, mind and soul. Assuming, of course, you survive, you carry the experience with you through life in cognitive memory, emotional memory and muscle memory. So what is this all leading to? An epiphiny of sorts.

Last year I had the opportunity to visit Ireland for 15 days. I presented a woman’s self defense class in the wild northern hills near Kylemore Abby, but the rest was pleasure, pure, unadulterated pleasure! I jumped... Now, I have to mention up front that traveling through Ireland was the first time I ever felt as if I walked (and drove) in a world in which I truly belonged. It was a world where almost everyone looked like me – fair skin, some freckles, green eyes and varying shades of auburn hair. Seeing the country and meeting the people stirred in me a creativity that I have not felt before and did not expect.

The stories just rolled out, splashing from my mind so rapidly that I would often pull to the side of the road and scribble some new idea or sketch a character. And trust me, pulling to the side of the road in Ireland is an adventure all its own! My mind was filled with thoughts of the wee folk, fairies, gnomes and strong women who fought for their families and people carrying on in the face of daunting odds. As I walked the chambers of Knowth and Dowth lightly touching the ancient carvings, visions of a civilization dead

some 4,000 years played with my senses and tickled my imagination. Climbing the tight circular staircases of dilapidated castles pressed upon me the reality of life in an age most people can’t even comprehend. Standing on the Cliffs of Mohr feeling the sea breeze beat against my face reddening my cheeks like those of the children who ran past chasing sea gulls that rode on the wind. They could have been children in my own family or from a family centuries ago. Spending time in a small crystal-cutting workshop on the Dingle peninsula with the hands of a master cutter wrapped around mine, I created a pattern in lead crystal that amazed us both. You can put those feelings into words without having been there and done it, but the richness these experiences have lent my writing is incalculable.

The first travel I have done solely for myself since I began writing in earnest, I now know that there is no substitute for taking that leap, for seeing something with your own eyes, feeling the real thing beneath your fingertips and literally soaking up the ambiance of being in the presence of a story come to life. There is just no alternative as enriching or stimulating. The stories that rolled from my mind drenched the pages of one travel journal, then another and a third was filled by the end of my journey. In 15 days! Sitting behind a computer researching facts, descriptions and characters on the Internet or in an encyclopedia can not compare to what I gained in those few days I drove the length and breadth of the Emerald Isle. Granted sitting behind a computer is cheaper and less dangerous considering the Irish drive on the left side of trails they call roads, but dodging tourist busses and lories is just one of the many adventures that make it all real. Real is important to an author and critical for our readers. Lying on a damp rug, bent over backwards kissing the Blarney Stone I came to the realization that, had I never been there I would not have known that the rock I was kissing used to be a drain for - yep, sewage and rainwater! Now that's a "holy crap!" moment. And there were many moments that ignited a passion within me. I found my renewed imagination and desire to write surprising and totally encompassing. It was a challenge to cram everything into my brain before it was time to leave.

So here is my humble recommendation for all writers: whatever the challenge is, do it. Whatever the food might be, eat it! I ate blood pudding and guess what? It’s a kind of sausage. I drank Guinness with bitters. It was horrible but I can definitely describe it now! I cut a pattern in crystal with my own hands on a wheel in a tiny village in western Ireland. I felt it. I carried it all the way home in my shoulder bag in a towel I swiped from a hotel! Okay… don’t steal it, but take away every experience you can, like it is a valuable jewel in your author’s crown. If you have an opportunity to stretch your wings and meet new people, conquer your American inhibitions and grab at the chance! Stretch your comfort level and go for it. What I do know is one thing leads to another and soon your feet walk a path you could never have imagined from a chair behind a computer. The jewels you gather will definitely twinkle in your manuscripts catching the eyes of those how venture past the covers.

If I could have met a real leprechan on my wanderings, I would have asked for this wish; that my sister writers seek out and treasure all of life’s experiences blown their way by the gales on cliff’s upon which they have the opportunity to stand. I did and now I have a burning desire not only to return to Ireland but to return to everywhere I have never yet been. I have a scalding desire to take those half a dozen stories that beg to be written bouncing about in my brain banging on my imagination out of me and put them on paper. But I will never again write from behind a computer. I think one of the wee folk lit a fire under my chair that makes me jump up and run for the hills where I not only find gold, but diamonds, and emeralds and crystal! More jewels that will eventually find their way into my manuscripts.

Happy spilunking.

Miriam Matthews.

Chickens and Writing

2011-08-16T16:03:00.002-08:00

How many of you have ever correlated writing with chickens? Well, I’ve discovered that having and housing chickens is a lot like writing your first novel. First there is a desire that grows until you decide to take action. You investigate the types of chickens and what you would like to end up with. As an example, you could choose a breed that will be showy pets, or meat producers, egg layers or a multi-purpose breed. Next, you look at plans and pictures of housing facilities (coops) that have been built before you. An idea of what you would like gets mulled around in your mind until you are satisfied you will end up with something that will be of use.

Now you build your frame work. This seems to go up rather quickly and as you sit back and admire your work you think that this could be easier than you thought. Confidence builds. You start enclosing the coop and paying attention to details like nesting boxes, a feeding station, water, window and lights, the human door and the access door for the chickens to go in and out to their run. Whew, that was work, and it takes longer than you think, but you still have the determination and confidence that you can do this . . . yes you can, so you move on to the next step. The chicken run. The first run contains the chickens, and all is well. You even planned ahead and made sure the neighborhood fox couldn’t dig under the fence by using large timbers to line around the bottom of the run. That was easier than you thought it would be, you are almost done. Finally, or so you think, you take the last step, purchase chickens and bring them home. All is well, the chickens are happy, you are happy, and even your husband is happy because he loves the fresh eggs. Life is good.

Now for a more painful phase, the learning phase. The chicken run was built to keep the chickens in and the fox out, and that works. The run was even built near the house in a treed area giving cover from prying, or should I say, preying eyes above. That also works, at least for the first year. The second winter brings in a hunter from above, a hawk. The hawk had a very tasty last meal and that took care of that.

Now things are going along without much change and you feel the need to expand, learn and even create. You know what that means? That’s right, hatching chicks. It gives you some much needed enthusiasm for the never ending and mundane chores you have to do, the cleaning, feeding, watering. It all gets a little easier as you expectantly wait for some new additions to the flock. Then the little peepers start popping out one by one. They are adorable, you smile as you watch them run around mimicking mom. You have to take in some sadness as you learn that not all of the eggs hatch, and you lose a chick or two for some unknown reason, but all in all things go well, until . . . those tiny little chicks decide it is time to go exploring and the holes in the chicken wire are too large to keep in such tiny creatures. The fox was pretty much dissuaded from hunting here, but the distress calls from little peepers that could find their way out, but not their way in, was just too enticing. Now that there are distress signals, it also brings in magpies. Time to go back to work and build a better chicken run. Maybe the second time around you will get it right. Maybe not. Maybe there will be other bumps in the road. Only time will tell how determined you really are to make all of this work.

Sandy Shacklett

What Writing and Pageants Have in Common

2011-07-29T12:50:00.003-08:00

AKRWA Blog by Lynn Lovegreen:

As some of you know, my daughter Katy Lovegreen is Miss Alaska 2011. As I’ve been enjoying watching her wave in parades and getting ready for the Miss America competition, I’ve noticed that there are some things that writing and pageants have in common:

1. You’re judged by experts as you compete for a spot. In writing, you’re trying to get an agent or editor to choose you for their client or author list. In pageants, you're trying to impress the judges so they choose you for the title.

2. There’s a lot of prep behind the scenes. In writing, there are hours of writing, editing, working on your website or blog or other marketing. In pageants, there are hours writing your essay and other entry paperwork, practicing for your talent and interview, working out at the gym, and fundraising for the pageant’s national community service partner, the Children’s Miracle Network.

3. You meet lots of great people. In writing, I am always impressed with how generous writers are with advice and encouragement. In pageants, most of the girls and volunteers are very helpful, whether it’s loaning you a pair of high heels or teaching you how to walk in them.

4. People have stereotypes. For writers, people think we’re all Barbara Cartland (or pick your “typical” contemporary author). For pageant participants, people think they’re all Barbie dolls or bubble heads. Actually we’re all individuals with our own personalities and motivations. (Did you know that most of the Miss America participants are interested primarily in the scholarships?)

5. It’s satisfying when you win. It’s heartwarming when readers tell you that your book is important to them. It’s rewarding when you see the kids at the children’s hospital and know that you made their day.

If you’d like to learn more about my Katy and the Miss Alaska Scholarship Foundation, go to missalaskapageant.com or to see how to donate to the Children's Miracle Network, check out https://www.missamericaforkids.org/m.aspx?i=1232899E0375FF55A.

Switching Gears

2011-07-22T11:10:00.003-08:00

Not all of us are just writers. We wear many hats. Besides being a mother of four and a wife, I’m a commercial fisherman. Just this week I finished fishing the Sockeye salmon season in Bristol Bay, Alaska.

I’ve exchanged my fishing hat, raingear, boots, and bibs, for a laptop and a much needed green tea frappuccino.

Problem is my writer’s hat doesn’t fit. Something is wrong this year. I usually dive back into writing—into that magically world where I pull all the strings—with barely a splash. My characters welcome me back with a barrage of dialogue spewing so fast it’s all I can do to make sense of it all.

This year there is only silence.

The logical part of me says not to worry. Fishing was really hard this summer. Give yourself a freaking break. Remember those gale force winds, ten foot seas, and cutthroat fishermen. The parade of bears to where you were no longer saw them as a threat but more of a nuisance. Come on. Mosquitoes are a nuisance!

The creative side of me is frantic, mentally searching for anything worth writing about and coming up blank. It’s amazing how scary blank is. I’d rather deal with bears.
I know I need to “chillax” as my teenage daughter is fond of saying. I definitely need a few fraps. Reading a good book is also sound advice. Rereading my own material and maybe editing is a stellar idea too. But no. I don’t want to do any of it.

I’m just exhausted. Right? My creative well hasn’t dried up. Surely not. I could write about my recent summer experiences, but who wants to relive all that hard work and frustration? Not me. I want to fall into a coma.

So please, share how you refill your creative well when it appears to be all dried up?

This writer/fisherman needs to be tossed a line.

Tiffinie Helmer

Alaska

2011-07-08T16:54:00.004-08:00

Alaska is hard on writers.
You may be thinking about winter. It is cold and dark from October until March. When the sun comes out it is blinding and brilliant and the only colors are black and white and that amazing blue sky. The snow is tedious, the ice is treacherous and the wind is brutal. It is a major production to go anywhere because of the layers and layers of clothing you have to put on. Moose the size of a quarter-horse are hiding behind the bushes waiting for you to drive by so they can commit suicide. The cost of fuel is frightening and the cost of groceries horrific.
Uhh, no, winter is the easy part. Writers are happy. They're cozy by a fire, wrapped in an afghan with fuzzy socks and a cup of something warm. Not necessarily caffeine. They are writing like crazy because they know--Oh my Gosh! They've only got six months.
In Alaska the hard part is SUMMER.
There is so much to take you away from writing. Lush is the first word that comes to mind. Lush green chickweed growing inches overnight to envelope any little beet foolish enough to sprout. Fish to catch and process for next winter, a garden to work in. Festivals to celebrate all the foolish things we miss for the other six months. We get up in the light and go to bed in the light--oh, the glorious light. We look up from what we are doing and realize it's eleven p.m. and the reason we're hungry is we didn't stop to eat at six. The frantic pace we keep in summer is hard to explain to people from Outside. But, there is so much to do. Four-wheeler trips with family and friends-plane rides to scout for a new hunting area-new puppies and new chicks and new friends or old ones that you only see in the summer when they stumble out of the brush to go to the hardware store.

We collect ideas in the summer and write in the winter-I guess it isn't all bad.
DeNise Woods

The Cannibal Irony

2011-06-21T00:01:00.003-08:00

Cannibals are evil, right? They kill and eat people, and that is inherently wrong. Yet Cannibals are some of the most interesting characters in my story world. How can readers possibly bond with someone who does something so evil?

In Botanicaust, the Cannibals survived the demise of world food crops by refusing to be picky. Yes, they eat humans, but not exclusively. They eat anything. And they don’t believe in wasting. Their culture evolved as the ultimate conservationists. They have laws to protect people with knowledge that must not be lost. And only certain bands, called Hunters, actively hunt and kill other people. The rest of the Cannibals are gatherers, healers, craftsmen, and parents. If the situation suits them, they take pity on outsiders.

Beyond the one nearly unforgivable trait that defines them, Cannibals in Botanicaust have many good qualities. There is a reason for what they do, proven again and again by a harsh environment. Readers can empathize with the need to survive. And that is the crux of memorable characters; the reader doesn’t have to actively like them, only empathize with them.

Can you think of a character with a serious flaw who for some reason, you bonded with anyway? What redeemed that character for you?

Cross posted at www.tamlinsey.com and www.romancingthegenres.blogspot.com

Can Talent be Inherited?

2011-06-10T08:22:00.011-08:00

Hi World!

You know...I volunteered to be the overseer/nag of the Alaska RWA BLOG. I figured it was the least I could do. (literally). Weirdly enough - I've been bugging all the other BLOGGERS about getting theirs done on time, and somehow, I just never got around to doing one. Well, guess what. Somebody in the group finally noticed.

Which explains - sort of - why I'm writing today.

I read a lot of historical tomes and watch a lot of educational/historical DVDs. I call it research, but to me it's just plain fun. I recently finished a series on the seer Nostradamus, and one thing he said really bothered me. His son Cesar (I don't know if I spelled it right) claimed to have inherited the talent to foresee the future as well, but his own father seemed to dispute it, and that got me to wondering why anybody would question if talent can be inherited.

My answer has to be: YES. Look at just about any family of actors in show business. I won't bother listing any. I don't have that much room. But, in a roundabout way this brings me to my little sister. I have a mother who is amazingly talented in the arts - and can she sing! I have lots of siblings, too, and they exhibit lots of talent, but I'd really like to introduce you to my baby sister, Barbara. (And she's just going to have to forgive me for calling her "baby".)

She's a painter that takes your breath away. Now. I dabble in drawing. I've done a few paintings. I won scholarship and attended college on my talent. My heart just isn't that into it - much to my family's chagrin, because I'm not bad. Here's one of my pictures, GRAY WOLF 1990. This one was drawn with a 12 pack of colored pencils. Not bad. Like I said. But, I have to tell you. My baby sister, Barbara, blows me away. I stuck a picture of her recent painting at the very beginning of this post. Wow, huh?

And then there's the writing thing. now. Writing is my true love, my joy, my passion, my reason for living. Okay. That's probably a tad overboard, but you get the gist. (and don't tell my hubby). I've got several books out, a few ebooks now, and I've won or finaled in some contests over the years. My next one is a paranormal historical vampire anthology. HIGHLAND HUNGER. It's due out in September. In October, my next Scot Highland historical comes out. It's titled KNIGHT EVERLASTING. I already have a review on this one that ends with one word: "Wow". It'll be up at Long and Short Reviews once the release date gets closer.

Well. You should have guessed it. Barbara caught the writing bug, too. Before I started writing, I was the most prodigious reader anywhere. I'd go through 30-40 books a month. This isn't an exaggeration. The book store In Rawlins Wyoming had a standing order when the romances came in that I got first peek at them before they'd load them on the shelves. Oh. Brother. My TBR stack was embarrassing. Well, I got Barb started reading historical romances when she was back in High School. And that's all it took. I think she's now out-read me.

And recently, she got her own book out there. She's got a long adventure (ok. It has a little romance angle) book up at Amazon! It's a fun read. Really. You gotta check it out. Heck. She even illustrated it.

So. There's my case. Talent is definitely inherited, and I was lucky to get some.
Thanks for listening. I've now fulfilled my duty and can go nag the next BLOGGER.

Oh! I'd love to do a contest. If anyone wants to win an Advance Reader Copy of HIGHLAND HUNGER, you gotta comment to enter. I'll send it out when I get back from RWA in New York. Promise.

Jackie

I Aspire

2011-06-04T13:30:00.001-08:00

I remember reading an interview with a Romance Author, in which she stated that a Fan came up to her and Thanked her profusely for a book the author had written. The reason for the gratitude was that the Fan had read this book, while she sat by her child’s bedside as they recovered from injuries sustained in a car crash. The child pulled through with flying colors and the Fan was able to abate her anxiety by reading this author’s book.

I aspire to write a book such as this, a story that will give someone out there, sitting beside a loved one in a hospital bed, solace. Someone who hasn’t slept for days and is praying for those they love to have peace or healing. Perhaps some poor mother who is holding her child’s tiny hand and feels as if her heart is being squeezed like a sponge, because there is nothing she can do but wait and read and wait. A book that a girlfriend reads to her best friend, who recuperates and they can laugh and cry together. A book that can make those sometimes painful and sometimes cherished, hours fly by like a morning bird in flight.

I continue to work towards improving my writing with education, life experience, reading other good books and one of the best critique groups on the planet. I aspire to write this book one day.

Carmen

Coming Soon

2011-05-19T00:01:00.000-08:00

New from Morgan Q. O'Reilly

Til Death Undo Us

Book One of the Open Windows Series

She never imagined love could happen twice—until her husband returned from the dead.

Cassidy thinks she’s getting on with her life just fine after her husband’s fall to cancer. Life is quiet, which is just the way she likes it, half a continent away from her overbearing Irish family.

Niall doesn’t want to scare the fragile Irish rose, but her husband, supposedly two years in the grave, has been caught on security tapes at a secret government laboratory. Together, they unearth evidence of industrial espionage and identity theft ...and frightening connections to the Irish Mob that will put more than just their own lives at risk.

Sex, bullets, more sex, intimate body piercings and a few red roses. What more could a girl want?

Excerpt:

“I’m Cassidy Malone.”

“Niall Malone.” He didn’t offer a hand to shake. A part of me was glad, because I couldn’t have disguised my sweaty palms.

Jacob stopped at my side and I had the distinct impression he wanted to step in front of me. “Jacob Levin, senior partner here. What do you want with Mrs. Malone?”

The intense blue eyes shifted to my boss for a moment. “I’m afraid it’s personal. Mrs. Malone, is there some place we can talk?”

“I’m in the middle of a project with a deadline, if you could give me a hint of what this is about?”

“I need to ask you a few questions about your husband.”

“All right.” I folded my arms and waited.

His gaze flicked to Jacob then back to me. “Really, if we can do this in private it would be best.”

“Cassie?” Jacob took my arm and glared at Malone. “She’s been under an incredible amount of stress. I can’t imagine what you have to say will make it better.”

“Nevertheless, it’s important. Mrs. Malone, we can do this the easy way, here and now, or the hard way.”

I didn’t need him to spell that out. I’d watched too many crime dramas. “Give me the first question and I’ll decide if it’s good enough to drop what I’m doing. Otherwise we’ll have to schedule something for later.”

That didn’t go over well. A muscle in the side of his cheek twitched and his lips tightened for a moment. “All right. Just tell me how to get in touch with your husband.”

Ever had one of those moments when it seems the world stops moving? The blood stops, then draws inward, leaving the sensation of limbs filled with ice water, heavy and cold. The roaring in my ears might very well have been the rush of blood leaving my head.

Jacob plucked Malone’s card from my numb fingers and studied it as the receptionist gasped.

“That’s not funny,” I managed to whisper from a throat so dry I could barely swallow.

“I’m not joking.”

“You want to know where my husband is?”

“Yes. Please.”

“All right.” If this were some sick joke, I’d play along for a minute. Maybe the goons at lunch had been setting me up after all. I didn’t think so, but the same conversation, twice in one day, less than two hours apart, who knew?

I gave him the street and number. I drove past it every single day. Sometimes stopped and sat on the grass to pull the weeds and tend to the Forget-Me-Nots I’d planted there.

I watched as he drew the map in his head. A crease formed between his heavy black eye brows. It took a minute, but he had it.

“That’s the Oak Knoll Cemetery.”

“Precisely.”

Coming July 18, 2011 from Lyrical Press

Morgan Q. O'Reilly

Website / Facebook

Books available on Kindle, Nook, Sony eReader and many places where ebooks can be found.

Obsessed With Numbers

2011-05-16T08:36:00.004-08:00

So, I’m not really a numbers person…ask my best friend the math teacher. When we’re out at dinner and I’m trying to calculate a tip she says things to me like “my class is doing decimals this week…I think you should come by.” Ha. Ha. Ha.

I made it through Algebra in High School and even got a “B” in Calculus in College but after that…I was done. I’m a word person. With the exception of grammar issues, there aren’t a lot of “wrong” answers with words.

But now, I’ve become obsessed with numbers on the Internet…sales, web hits, links, etc.

There are all sorts of things you can track…how many people click the page, how did they get the link, where do they live...well, not a specific address because that would be creepy, but still, I know what country they are in.

I had a new release (A Change of Pace) come out this past week and here is what I’ve learned…I need to bump up my audience in the UK.

I had 102 hits on various links over 3 days…88% are from the US, then I had a few from Canada, Trinidad and Tobago (no really), Croatia, one from the UK (I’m going to work on that) and a couple from Australia.

Most of them connected to me through Facebook and my webpage but not all. Some got the message through email or through places I’ve never heard of, which means, I don’t know how it got there in the first place.

And sales numbers are the worst. I’ve spent hours going back and forth to the Amazon page for “A Change of Pace” just to watch the numbers…I’m #14 on the list of Erotica Books. No, now I’m number #9. Wait, I’ve dropped to #27? How did that happen?

Arrgh. It’s way too distracting. I’m going back to writing my dragon book.

Okay, let me check Amazon one more time.

Tielle St. Clare

P.S. I know there are a lot of choices out there for getting these numbers. I use Stat-Counter and bit.ly

New to Alaska

2011-05-06T07:04:00.001-08:00

I am new to Alaska. So new, in fact, that my husband and I can still measure how long we’ve been in here in months (thirteen if you’re interested) and I’m still amazed by things like moose and 24 hour sunlight. Conversations with my friends and family down the lower-48 still include a lot of questions about the state and what it’s like actually live here. My best friend and I were on the phone the other night and she asked me how much fresh fruit costs in Alaska. We talked about the fact that goods and services are more expensive up here than they are down in New Jersey. I assured her that the fine print at the bottom of commercials that reads “prices higher in Alaska and Hawaii” doesn’t lie. Eventually, though, she asked about seafood, because, surely that was cheap, cheap, cheap. When I explained that the state is big enough that the costs of getting something from one part of the state to another automatically makes it expensive, she laughed and thanked me for bursting that bubble. She’d always assumed that, even if I was paying more for my grapefruit, I was at least getting king crab for less than the cost of chicken. The reality isn’t nearly as full of inexpensive crabby deliciousness as she would’ve liked it to be. Which is actually something authors have to be aware of whenever we write. Not crab, or the lack thereof, specifically, of course, but the differences between the realities of a situation and the assumptions we make about that situation.
Writing what we know is helpful, but still not foolproof. My first novel was based in Denver, Colorado, because that’s where I was living when I wrote it. By the time I had finished it, though, the coffee shop where my hero and heroine met had closed and the working class neighborhood where I had the best friend living had been gentrified and house prices had skyrocketed. So much for writing what you know. For my next novels, I thought I had solved the problem. I created Lambert Falls, North Carolina out of thin air. Only I still had to know how far it was to the Virginia border and how long of a drive it was to the Outer Banks. Even a fictional town required very real research.
My current work in progress takes place in New Orleans. I know nothing about New Orleans. You’d better believe, though, I will find someone who knows that city and pick their brain. I will become best friends with google maps and local librarians. I will learn about the local haunts, not just the tourist traps. Because for every reader out there who assumes certain things about New Orleans, there’s a reader who knows New Orleans. We as authors can’t get away with only writing the idealized version of a place.
So, I’ll research New Orleans and, hopefully, get it right. However, I do admit I would love to write a story with voodoo priestesses in every shadow and dark brooding men on every corner. Of course, I’d love king crab to be cheaper than chicken, too.

Pauline Trent

How Writing is Like Coon Hunting

2011-04-28T21:12:00.001-08:00

Have you ever been coon hunting?

I grew to adulthood in the Ozark Mountains, in the NW corner of Arkansas. The country folk used to coon hunt in the woods up there and probably still do.

Coon hunting happens at night. During the day, they hole up somewhere, so there's no use hunting before the sun goes down.

The guys all met for the hunt in pickup trucks, the beds loaded with leashed dogs crowded against coolers full of ice and beer. Just good ol' boys out for some fun with guns. Greeting and heckling each other, they put beer on the tailgates as one of the most important preparations for the hunt.

"Hey Harry, nice to see you and your tomboy!" they greeted my dad. He waved. I said nothing, only hefted my rifle, knowing I could outshoot most of these men even when they were sober.

After they gulped a few alcoholic beverages, the guys unleashed their hounds. Gathering up our guns, we ambled after the mob of canines disappearing into the night-dark forest.

The men reminisced about good dogs that'd died, naming them with gruff reverence. Jake. Molly. Tri-Sally who'd gotten run over by a tractor, too tough to die, running almost as fast as her pups on her remaining three legs. Good dogs. Their memories lived on in their descendents running for us that night.

"Do you remember Old Blue?" asked a gray haired man, his worn shotgun an extension of his wiry arm. "He never let a coon get an even break." I was unsure if he was talking about hunting. The edge of meanness in his words made me uneasy. A couple of men beside him laughed like they did when whispering dirty jokes.

The hounds' chorus signaled they'd found a coon trail and gave chase with tones so pure they sounded like church bells pealing in God's woods. Their voices rang of life and death and the saving or escaping of it. We quickened our pace.

When the dogs treed the coon, their voices changed. Their barking became angry. We know you are up there, and our people will blast you into Heaven. Some of the hounds summoned their masters, Come-come. We have him.

Everyone hurried to where the dogs had the coon treed, guns clutched in their arms, flashlights and lanterns swinging, splashing light on the trees. Despite their lights, several men trip over roots and leaves anyway. Me, I was a twelve year old girl. I didn't have a flashlight to light my path and didn't need one. My .22 rifle cradled in my arms was all I needed. I ghosted over the ground like a deer.

We arrived at the oak where the dogs leapt and thrashed the trunk with their paws, tearing the bark. A Bluetick and a Redbone tried to climb like cats. The Bluetick made it up as high as I was tall, only to fall back to the ground amidst the milling pack.

Men and boys circled the tree with their flashlights; the beams lights riffled the branches, searched for the eerie green-reflected light of coon eyes above our heads, but no eyes were seen.

I waited on the outskirts of all the flailing lights and stomping boots. I didn't want any beer drinking idiots to step on me and knock me down in their hunting frenzy. I wondered, if they sighted the coon, would one person shoot it? Or would the poor coon end up with more holes than hair?

Even as a young girl I knew you needed a good, seasoned hound to guide the younger dogs. Coons are clever creatures who probably studied with foxes some time in their distant ancestry and taught those red guys their tricks.

Coons who have been hunted before know all kinds of tricks to use against dogs. One of their favorite tricks is to urinate or defecate on the tree they first climbed, and then jump from the wispy branches of one tree to another, until they come to a spot where the branches are too far away. They are forced to ground again, and this is where the dogs could pick up his scent. If there are seasoned old coon hounds on the hunt, wise to this trick, the ruse doesn't work for long. But because I was out with a bunch of red necks whose main intentions were drinking beer away from their wives and swapping stories, we didn't have one experienced tracker in the bunch. We had a pack of adolescent pups barking up the wrong tree and no wise old hounds to show them the correct way of doing things.

The men encouraged the hounds to cast about the tree and showed them how to work in circles. Bob grabbed his black and tan by her leather collar and dragged the gyp away from the decoy spot to areas several yards away, shoving her nose at the ground to show her where coon scent might be found. After several false starts, a dog found the trail where the prey had returned to the ground. Rallying the pack, she launched into the dark woods.

Now this is how writing is like coon hunting. A seasoned writer knows when she is barking up the wrong tree. Experienced writers start casting about in overlapping circles from where they got lost to where they might pick up the story trail again. But a less experienced writer--like me--gets confused. I leap at that tree--my chapter--and try to climb it, but I can't seem to keep going. I've completely fallen for that decoy shit. Around and around, I circle the spot where I got lost, positive this is the writing path I'm supposed to continue. If only I could glimpse my story staring down at me with glowing eyes for just one moment…but the reality is, the story has moved on and I need to find where it came to ground. Sometimes I have to drag my writing self away from the decoy by the collar until I start questing for the new scent on more than mere instinct. Or my critique partners see I'm on a false trail and help to redirect me. Eventually I find the scent trail and take off again.

Beer doesn't help in hunting for coons. However, I do find a Mike's Hard Lemonade helpful while I ponder the best way to solve my writing problem. I'm drinking a Mike's black cherry right now. Yum!

Oh, and I never DID shoot a coon. Those guys were the best beer drinkers and the worst hunters I've ever seen.

Veronica

The Value of Shipping Out! Write At Sea

2011-04-27T04:31:00.002-08:00

Alliteration? Possibly…

Amplification? Probably.

Asyndeton? What?

Anaphora? Excuse me?

Epizeuxis? Holy s**t!

Polysyndenton? You lost me at asy…!

We call ourselves writers, dare we say authors, and yet the intricacies of our own language often escape us. And their titles? Well, that dog just don’t hunt (cliché – an idiomatic saying that means something other than what it actually states).

So why, you ask yourself, should a writer know what a litotes is? Or an eponym? Or, for heaven’s sake, onomatopoeia? Diversity I say! With my authoresk thick skin turned to the naysayer. If our goal as writers is to produce the best possible marketable manuscript then editing is critical. When we edit we must be able to communicate our edits and discuss the craftsmanship of our product. How does one do that efficiently without being able to pin down the problem with appropriate terms and label the issue at hand?

I recently had the opportunity to join “Write At Sea: Deep Editing Power Master Class” with the indomitable Margie Lawson and, I have to admit my eyes were opened to a whole new way of editing and diagnosing my manuscripts. Yes, DIAGNOSING. I learned to do the same thing a doctor does when faced with a heart wrenching disease in a young child – evaluate all of the symptoms, disregard the mitigating factors and pinpoint the problem, label the issues and prescribe a course of treatment. The process takes good observational skills, a certain amount of research and competency in the field.

Competency? That is an interesting word to use in reference to writers. Anyone can write a book, right? Right (conduplicatio- starting a sentence with a key word from the last sentence)! Yes and no. Anyone can put pencil to paper but it takes learning the craft of writing to become a good author.

We’ve all read it; the book with the golden cover that offers a handsome hunk rescuing a gorgeous damsel in distress (another cliché) on the cover. Your expectation drips from your chin as you salivate over the possibilities, like biting into a juicy apple (a wet metaphor – comparing two different things by asserting one is like the other). You reverently open the cover and read the jacket critiques. They twist your heart so beautifully (possibly an oxymoron- an ironic contrast using paradox). You do the Michael Phelps thing and dive right in (eponym – referring to a famous person who is recognized for an attribute). You can’t even breathe, think, move (asyndeton – omitting conjunctions between three or more words). The opening chapter is right there before you but still a million miles away (hyperbole – a deliberate exaggeration). Your eyes devour the first chapter and everything you have ever associated with Fabio seems not to be the least bit true (litotes – an understatement where the words deny the opposite of the word expected to be used)! You casually remind yourself you are reading Rogue. Suddenly it all comes back; the muscle fame, the Italian model fame, the hero worship- book cover-yummy fame (epistrophe – repeating the last word or phrase in three or more subsequent phrases or sentences)! And you are so sorry. So sorry. So very sorry (epizeuxis – the repetition of a word for emphasis). Left hanging and disappointed. Disappointed because the man and the myth do not correlate (anandiplosis – repeating the last word of one sentence at the beginning of the next). The cover and the text do not relate. The title of author and the actual book do not share a bond.

How many more rhetorical devices can I slide into this blog without becoming world-weary? Worn-out? Word-unwise (alliteration – repeating initial consonant sounds)? We still have allusion, amplification, anaphora, parallelism, personification, polysyndenton, simile, symploce and my personal favorite, ZEUGMA. But in the interest of giving my poor keyboard a break to recover (personification – attributing an inanimate object with human characteristics), I will simply state that knowledge of linguistic concepts are to our craftsmanship what bread is to a peanut butter and jelly sandwich (simile – comparing two different things that resemble each other or demonstrate a relationship). But you know I have to get one zeugma in, so fancy this: as authors we strive to provide our readers with exciting entertainment. However without the technical structure, superb editing and rich imagination of the author rolled together in one package we may have, excitement, entertainment… and crap!

Zeugma – use of a word in a list of two more words where the last word is not a logical progression. Zeugma. Remember it. Love it. Beat all you friends at Scrabble with it. Use it.

The DUH of Reading

2011-04-21T21:24:00.005-08:00

WARNING: This post may contain ridiculously obvious statements causing head-banging and eye-rolling among some writers. If you are reading fiction in as much quantity as you desire, you can safely skip this column.

The DUH of Reading
The other day I went to lunch with some non-writing friends—smart, professional women who understand I’m prone to fits of uncontrollable talking and also know I write in isolation so have a few other mortifying-to-be-around behaviors such as correcting the grammar on chalkboard menu-special signs. What they didn’t know is that I squeal over books. I admit, the books they found me squealing over this day were Little Golden Books. Even so, I was wounded—and astonished—by their reactions.
We were in a gift shop filled with classy, adult-oriented items like napkins that read, “Margueritas: They’re not just for breakfast anymore,” and what did I home in on? A rack of the above-mentioned Little Golden Books. Please understand, these were nothing less than classics. I’m not even lying. I found the original Color Kittens (my copy lost its cover years ago), and several other LGBs I read ragged at my grandmother’s house when I was a kid like, Doctor Dan the Bandage Man, and The Happy Man and His Dump Truck.
“I used to read one called, Nurse Nancy,” I said. “I wish I could find ...” I spun the rack and … there it was!
That’s when I squealed.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” one friend said, and I assured her I was not, this was the coolest thing I’d seen in a long time and I was going to buy four of the treasures.
“Oooookay,” said the other friend, and with complete seriousness added, “You are very strange.” (I want it on the record that SHE bought the marguerita napkins, so what was SHE talking about?)
I love my Little Golden Books. I’ve read them several times since bringing them home and putting them on my Keeper Shelf. In fact, I have more kids’ books than I can count in my house, and I still collect them. Why? Because these are the books that taught me to love reading. To love a story that made me feel happy or excited. Children’s books are, in my opinion, the most important books on the planet.
Fast forward from my Nurse Nancy days to when the Little Golden Books were replaced by The Black Stallion books, then Harlequin Romances by the gross, then LaVyrle Spencer, then, then … THEN, I knew I wanted to be a writer. So, I screwed up my courage and started to write.
You know what happened? Slowly, so slowly I barely noticed, I stopped reading very many books just for sheer joy. (Even procrastinating from my own writing I didn’t read—I cleaned the bathroom.) My reading material was reduced to books by Donald Maas or Debra Dixon. I did get to read wonderful stories by critique partners, but the point wasn’t to savor them, the point was to hand out opinions so I could get opinions on my work handed back to me. It was a very rare Susan Elizabeth Phillips or Lisa Kleypas that crossed my eyes. (Crossed my eyes??)
Excuses? I had a million of ‘em:
1) I don’t have time to waste reading, I need to write.
2) I can only read when I go to bed at night and I fall asleep so fast it isn’t worth it.
3) I can’t read other writers or it a) depresses me because they’re so good or b) depresses me because they’re so bad and they’re published anyway
4) I can’t read because I’m always in edit mode and I find all the mistakes and it’s no fun.

Etcetera. I was reading only three or four books a year and not seeing how much I missed the ones I wasn’t reading. Until, one day, I realized how envious I was of the question: “Who is your favorite romance hero—the one permanently on your keeper shelf?” and I had no answer except Mike Mulligan (who had a steam shovel named MaryAnn). And, thank the Lord for him, but I needed to get with the program.
The point of this is that I’ve learned there IS no excuse to stop reading if you’re a writer. I’ve recently started love affairs with every writer I can find in my genre and am working hard to learn what my (I hope) future fans love. I’m also reading any other genre that looks interesting. It’s very empowering. And it’s FUN! (Note: here’s where the head-banging, eye-rolling thing happens.) And, wait for it…it’s not just fun, it’s necessary.
You can’t write if you don’t know what’s out there. You have to read in your genre—no arguments. You will improve, you’ll be reassured, you’ll be more creative.
Even more important: you can’t write well, if you don’t read widely. Romance, like all genre fiction, has its tropes, it’s clichés if you will. Think steely blue eyes, chiseled jaws, and rock hard pecs. Other genres—sci fi, literary, women’s fiction, Little Golden Books —have their vocabularies too. Read them all, learn from them all. Be the writer who “brings it all” to your work.
And that’s the ‘duh.’ I don’t know how I came to the conclusion that I didn’t have time for fun reading. I’ve learned more in the past six months by reading for pleasure than from fifteen chapters of Writing the Breakout Novel.
So, if you aren’t taking time to read very much anymore, consider this an invitation to re-start. If you are, you’re well ahead of me and more power to you—I’m on my way to catching up.

Right after I finish The Color Kittens.

Liz Selvig

My First RT Conference

2011-04-15T02:00:00.007-08:00

Imagine traveling to a faraway land where the ladies dance in fairy wings. Men with chiseled cheekbones and rock-hard abs roam the hallways. Romance authors are treated like superstars. Everyone in this magical place shares your passion for the written word. Your idols are delighted to share naughty beverages with you until dawn. Everyone – well, a few people here and there – knows your name and is happy to see you.

Where is this paradise? Well, this year it was in Los Angeles, next year in Chicago, and it’s known throughout the land as the Romantic Times Booklovers Convention.

I’d never been before, and boy, did I get my little introverted mind blown.

I never thought RT would be… So. Much. Fun. It was like one long slumber party punctuated by costume balls and Catherine Coulter sightings. I’ll put romance fans up against any other type of fan as the most fun, most passionate, and all-around loveliest. How about the mother and daughter who flew in from England and filled their journals with author autographs? Or the fan who made corset-tutu vampire zombie costumes for her friends?

In case you’ve never been to RT, it’s all about the parties and the hotel bar. This year the themes were Bollywood, Steampunk, Vampire Zombies and the Venetian Masquerade Fairy Ball. Drink of choice: chocolate martini. The four-day conference is a bit of a blur, so I’ll just pick out some favorite moments.

Cutest moment: a tiny dog in fairy wings winning a prize at the costume ball.

Most scandalous moment: the Samhain author party getting shut down by hotel security (too much loud talking) and everyone getting escorted to the elevator.

Most touching moment. Harlequin author Olivia Gates thanking everyone who helped promote her new release while she was trapped in Egypt during the upheaval.

Most thrilling moment: Signing “Juniper Bell” for the first time, for a fan who’s read all my books and can’t wait for the next one.

Biggest fangirl moment: This one’s tough! There were so many amazing authors there. But meeting Sabrina Jeffries is up there. And breakfast with the astonishingly talented and unbelievably down-to-earth Darynda Jones.

And oh, the books … two huge boxes are in the mail on their way to Homer. I might have overdone it. Then again, when it comes to romance, can you ever really get enough?

Juniper Bell

Gold Rush Dreams and Jaded Ladies

2011-04-07T20:10:00.003-08:00

Lottie went to the diggings.

With Lottie we must be just.

If she didn’t shovel tailings,

Where’d she get her dust?

Chilkoot Pass

On August 6, 1898 the rumored arrival of a ship loaded with over two tons of gold and sixty-eight newly wealthy miners spread like fire through the Seattle area. Within hours sensible men had quit their jobs, dedicated men had left their families, and fortune hunters had spent their last dime on supplies, all with the intention of journeying into the harsh beauty of the Yukon to grab their piece of the pot.

But men were not the only adventurous souls to set their sights on the golden dream. Women of every social station shed their mundane routines and joined the swarm of men on the treacherous trip up north and the deadly thirty-three mile trek over the Chilkoot Pass and into Dawson City.

Restricted by Victorian morality, the Klondike Gold Rush was just the excuse these daring and sometimes desperate women needed to leave a life of security or poverty, and embrace an unknown and exciting future. Any hardships they would face were well worth the trouble when the possibility of wealth and independence was the payoff.

But as so often happens, the glimmering promise of gold dimmed once the women realized there were no respectable jobs to be found. Though it was legal to file a claim under a woman’s name, it was still considered improper. Mining was backbreaking work and unless paired with a man, the chore often proved too difficult.

If lucky, a woman might find a job as a laundress for $5 a day plus room and board, or a housekeeper for $12 a week plus room an board. But with the skyrocketing cost of supplies and rent, it became impossible for these hardy females to buy a simple meal.

What’s a girl to do? Go home? Many had spent their last dollar on their arduous journey and arrived in Dawson City broke and hungry. Suicide? Sadly, this was too often the path chosen by the desperate. With the gender rate reaching ten-thousand men to eight-hundred women, the choice became obvious. Like the devil holding the answer to their survival, the brothels, dancehalls, and saloons became a haven for the girls and women who were so far from home.

With companionship in short supply and gold dust overflowing, many of these working girls embraced their life and learned how to work the system. Dance hall or commission girls earned approximately $40 a week plus, 25% commission on any drinks sold, 50% on dances, and $7.50 on a pint of champagne. One commission girl reported that on her best night she earned $750 simply by talking to a lonely miner.

“The poor ginks just gotta spend it. They’re scared they’ll die before they get it out of the ground.”

Diamond Tooth Gertie Lovejoy

Prostitutes earned $3 to every dollar earned by the dancehall girls. The clever strumpet used her own scale to weigh the gold dust she received in trade for her companionship. The standard four ounces of gold, or $64, for fifteen minutes often measured out more to the tune of eight ounce by the time she finished weighing the miner’s payment.

“A Dawson City girl did not need good looks. She needed stamina, a cold, calculating eye, and utter ruthlessness.”

Cy Martin

Not everybody like the bawdy women and their practices, but most accepted them as a necessary evil. Several of the showgirls in Dawson garnered quite a name for themselves and lived the life of their dreams

Klondike Kate, or Kathleen Rockwell as friends and family in Spokane, Washington knew her, grew up as a rebellious teenager, preferring an independent spirit over social rules and learning.

Klondike Kate

It’s rumored when Kate was denied entrance into

Canada

on her way to Alaska, she donned boys clothing and hopped onboard a boat heading to the Yukon. Once in Dawson City, Kate found her niche’ and became a local celebrity by performing her famed Flame Dance. With elegant and graceful moves, Kate managed to keep two-hundred yards of chiffon airborne for the duration of her dance. In her first year in the Klondike, Kate earned thirty-thousand dollars and secured a place for herself among the citizens of Dawson City.

Diamond Tooth Gertie Lovejoy headlined at the Palace Grand Theater during her stint in Dawson. Though she ended up marrying a respectable lawyer who had been her client, polite society never accepted Gertie as one of them. Perhaps the diamond jammed between her front teeth had something to do with the social snub.

Not far behind the sinner travels the saint. Church-going women soon arrived on the scene, rolled up their sleeves, and tried to help out or cast out the soiled doves. But the roots of prostitution and the need of the miners had burrowed too deep to eradicate the practice completely. The Reformists were somewhat successful in relocating the red-light district to the edge of town and building a tall green fence around the area. However, their efforts could never fully purge the city of sin.

“Of all the predatory, gold digging, disease-eaten, crooked female devils this side of Hell, the worst were in the Klondike in the early days.”

E.C. Trewlawney-Ansell

Six Prositutes

As the discovery of gold in Fairbanks drew more miners, the prostitutes followed, as did the Reformists. Thomas Marquam, a brilliant criminal attorney quickly made a name for himself by defending the prostitutes, gamblers, and bar owners in the area. He also became the editor of the Fairbanks Times and was later elected as the mayor.

After the death of his wife, Marquam sought solace in the red-light district and namely in the arms of Ray Alderman. His affair with the prostitute was well known throughout Fairbanks but didn’t cause him problems until Fairbanks became the focus of a visit from the president of the

United States

, Warren G. Harding.

A delegation of irate matrons confronted Marquam and demanded he end the tawdry relationship with that woman. They argued his association with her would make the citizens of Fairbanks a laughing stock. Taking their dispute to heart, Marquam asked Ray Alderman to be his wife and she accepted. Much to the meddling harpies’ consternation, Ms. Alderman not only became the first lady of Fairbanks, but also the first lady in the reception party for President Warren G. Hardy. One must wonder if Thomas Marquam thought, “Take that you old battleaxes.”

Though landing a husband was like shooting fish in a barrel, many of the women decided they liked the independent life prostitution afforded them. Gussie Lamore, a nineteen year old prostitute, turned down a miner by the name of Bill Gates who offered to pay her her weight in gold if she married him.

She replied, “Independence is a good deal too.”

Miss Violet Raymond was the undisputed belle of the camp. Once the reining queen of burlesque in Juneau, the owner of The Gold Hill Hotel paid an enormous amount for her to move to Dawson City and perform.

“Her admirers numbered by the score,” reported gold king, Antone Stander, Violet’s future husband. To woo her away from the limelight, Stander bought every diamond in the camp and presented them to Miss Violet in a necklace that hung nearly to her knees. He also gifted her with $20,000 in gold dust, a lard bucket full of odd-shaped gold nuggets, and offered her $1000 a month allowance if she married him.

“I make good money—but not that good,” replied Violet.

They were married a short time later.

Klondike Kate is the only good-time girl to receive any recognition for her part in the Yukon Gold Rush. In 1931, wearing the $1500 Parisian dress she wore during her glory days in Dawson City, Kate was honored by over a thousand aging pioneers.

Top of Chilkoot Pass

Many of the Gold Rush sirens and wealthy prospectors found joy in each others arms for short span of time, but few were able to keep the flames of passion burning once they left the wild atmosphere of the mining camps. Greed and suspicion replaced all-consuming passion and the very gold that brought the lovers together, soon tore them apart. Divorce, swindles, gambling, and even murder litter the pages of history for these unfortunate gold rush marriages.

Praying the north still held the key to happiness, many penniless Gold Rush veterans traveled back to Alaska in hopes of regaining their fortune. Few ever achieved the measure of success they’d previously experienced, but it wasn’t for lack of trying.

Like the thousands of men who journeyed into the unknown to find their fortunes, these spirited females of the Klondike fought and slaved for their part of the dream. Gold Rush history would not be nearly so colorful or interesting without these jaded ladies.

Lobster

2011-04-01T12:32:00.003-08:00

We have a tradition in our family in which the birthday boy or girl gets to choose anything they want me to make for a birthday dinner. My son almost always wants king crab, which isn’t too much of a problem since we live in Alaska and those sweet spiders (yes, they are arthropods, just like spiders!) are relatively inexpensive compared to, say, lobster. Of course, this year, my son decided he wanted to try lobster. So with a groan, I forked out the money for lobster tails.

I’ve never cooked lobster before, so I got online to find instructions. Ruining them by cooking them improperly would be unacceptable. Apparently, you can cook lobster a lot of different ways, so I opted for baking, since the tails would curl if I steamed them. I also discovered that with live lobsters, to keep them from curling you can submerse them in beer to get them to “relax” before you cook them! That experiment might have almost been worth the extra money for live lobsters.

As I was preparing the baking sheet, my daughter remarked, “Mom, I thought lobsters were red.” And I realized these weren’t. Why not? Was there something wrong with them?

Again, a trip to the computer. (What did we do in the days before the Internet?) After a bit of searching, and a side trek where I learned why fish smell “fishy” and how lemon juice works to chemically reduce the odor, I learned that heat denatures all the color proteins in the lobster shell except for the red one. So after cooking, all that is left is the stable, red pigment that was there all along. Interesting topic while we ate dinner.

A guest commented on how she had learned more science at that dinner than she had in a long time, and I realized – well, I realized maybe I’m weird. But I’ve always had an inquisitive mind. It’s why I write science fiction. My mind is always asking these kinds of questions. No matter what else I am doing. I love to know why things work the way they do, particularly biological systems. Writing sci-fi is a joy for me, because I get to research “why,” and I get to hypothesize “what if.”

I wonder if I could find a way to put lobster people in my next manuscript …

Tam Linsey

In the future, survival carries a steep price ...
www.tamlinsey.com

Factual Fiction or Fictionalized Facts

2011-03-25T09:58:00.001-08:00

When does fact turn into fiction? When an author writes a novel, of course.

One of the things that surprised me when I was looking for edits on the novel I wrote, was the number of comments about how real things needed to be. Okay, ‘things’ is a pretty generic term, so what do I mean. When describing a view from a recognizable restaurant, I had my proof readers putting themselves in that restaurant, looking out the windows and envisioning what was really there as opposed to what I described. They did this on their own. And even though they were reading a work of fiction, they still expected to be surrounded by reality and that reality needed to be accurate. If your novel includes scene descriptions in a certain area, let’s pick Alaska as an example, your scene has to be based in reality. You can’t put a maple tree in someone’s backyard or a blue jay in a birch tree when writing about Alaska. Neither one of those would occur, for real.

The amount of realism in a work of fiction doesn’t stop at contemporary or historical romances, either. Even science fiction and fantasy have certain realities that they must take into consideration. While listening to other people talk about their writing challenges you learn that a vampire will always need blood, because that is part of what defines a vampire. A gnome will not have fairy-like characteristics. That just wouldn’t be very gnom-a-nomic. And I’ve never seen a tree grow from the sky down.

This is one of those learning experiences that being a part of a writer’s group helped me understand, that I’m grateful for, and that I’d like to share with you. So, keep the facts in fiction or your readers may not be able to see the real deal.

Sandy Shacklett

Alaska Historical Fiction

2011-03-12T20:46:00.003-09:00

Alaska Historical Fiction by Lynn Lovegreen

I write historical fiction set in Alaska. There are so many good stories here that it is easy to come up with ideas. The hard part is deciding which story to work on next.

I am working on a Gold Rush series. I chose that period because there are so many great things that happened during that era and lots of dramatic events to weave into plots. I usually come up with a setting first (ie. Skagway in 1898), then research to find important events and details that would be interesting to readers. Once I know enough, then I start daydreaming about how a young lady might end up in that place and what might happen to her. For example, with the Skagway novel, I knew I wanted the infamous con man Soapy Smith to be featured, and came up with real events that my heroine could witness to anchor that part of the plot. And with a high ratio of men to women, there’s lots of opportunity of romance too. My heroines always end up meeting their special someones on their Alaska adventures!

Once I have a basic plot line, then I write a draft, doing research to fill in gaps as needed. Some people ask, “Isn’t it hard to do all that research?” Not for me--I enjoy it. There are lots of great books on Alaska history, plus historic photographs and visits to sites that give you the little details that can make a place come alive for the reader. So for me, the research is part of the fun of writing.

I’ve got three Gold Rush books so far: set in 1898 Skagway, 1900 Nome, and 1906 Fairbanks. My next idea is early-1900s Kantishna, in modern-day Denali National Park. If I get tired of the Gold Rush one day, there are lots of other dramatic time periods in Alaska. It would be great to do a series about Russian America, when we were Russian territory. And so many interesting things took place during World War II here. Alaska is perfect for historical fiction. I feel lucky to live in this fascinating place.

FLAWED AND FANTASTIC

2011-03-06T11:27:00.003-09:00

March 5th marks the beginning of the Iditarod. “The Last Great Race on Earth” pits man and beast in a race covering 1,150 miles over some of the most dangerous, intimating wilderness in the world. Equipped with only a sled and a loyal team of dogs, the competitors are tested against jagged mountain ranges, frozen rivers and lakes, thick forests, arctic deserts, and wind-whipped coastline. If the terrain wasn’t challenging enough, this all happens during brutal temperatures below zero, blinding blizzards, and long arctic nights.

It takes character to compete in such a grueling, hostile race. This year’s competitors once again include Lance Mackey who is going for his fifth consecutive win after overcoming drug and alcohol addictions plus beating throat cancer.

Talk about character. Lance Mackey is adventurous, ambitious, spirited, and flawed.

Let me tell you about my grandmother. She was a woman with no equal. A wife and mother of four, published author, English teacher, artist, woodcarver, photographer, fisherman, sled dog breeder, and musher. Besides being a wife and mother, all the other accomplishments where achieved after she had turned forty. Not only was she creative, daring, and tenacious, she sucked at cooking, refused to clean, and routinely had strawberry ice cream for dinner and pie for breakfast. My grandfather worshipped her.

My grandmother in her sixties.

When I begin crafting a character, I develop the flaws first. Flaws are interesting. I say this as a writer not as a wife. Sometimes the flaw is big enough that it becomes what the character needs to overcome. Lance Mackey had to conquer his drug addictions in order to become an Iditarod champion. Now my grandmother being addicted to strawberry ice cream is fun. I can play with that and have. In one of my books, my hero is a health nut and my heroine is a junk food fan. When my villain poisons a salad, these flaws save her life, but incapacitate my hero’s.

My husband has flaws that can frustrate the hell out of me, and I know that I have a few that drive him insane. Being a writer gives me the power to exploit his flaws or finally solve those imperfections. At least, fictionally.

I love reading about strong, bigger than life characters, even gods and demons with their other worldly powers, but it’s the flaws that make me truly care about them.

If you’re a writer, what flaws have you integrated into your characters that make them fascinating? As a reader, what are some of the flaws you enjoy in characters?

Tiffinie Helmer

Brain Cravings

2011-02-27T21:58:00.002-09:00

I'm thinking a lot about why people become interested in things, not just novels but also food, music, and games. Children who have autism tend to be come rigid in their interests, playing the same game or eating the same foods over and over again. As a teacher's assistant working with such children, I often struggle to get one kid to name the letters instead of lining them up by color, or to get another to recognize whole words instead of just repeating the names of letters. Hopefully these kids will someday enjoy reading whole stories.

And then I go home and write fiction for adults. I'm facing the same sort of problem. Some readers insist on the same story and type of story told repeatedly. I work at enticing readers into something new.

Here is what I think is happening. Brains are prediction machines, having evolved over time to analyze patterns and predict what will happen next. They are driven to find out what happens next. Brains which are good at predicting pass on the ability, producing babies with similar brains.

This prediction isn't conscious analysis, but an instinctive drive. Our brains crave patterns and prediction of patterns the same way we crave food, or sleep, or affection. If these patterns aren't available, we create them. Brains with neurological problems blocking their development go after whatever patterns are accessible. The results are often amazing. People missing huge parts of their brains can still adapt and function well. I stand in awe of the brain, particularly the brain of a child, and what it can do.

I believe that a baby playing with a rattle and an adult reading a novel are both engaged in pattern prediction and for the same reasons; brains crave a combination of expectation and surprise.

The baby shaking the rattle doesn't know exactly what will happen, but she has an idea of what will happen and the result delights her. As she goes through the sequence of muscle movement, visual effect, and sound, her brain adapts, rewiring itself to better-coordinated hearing, movement, and vision. It's fun and feels good because it's what the brain needs. When the child gets older, she loses interest in rattles or her interest in them changes. She might move on to exploring rhythm. At this time, her brain has already made the changes and no longer craves the simple pattern of rattle-shaking.

Young brains crave easily predicted patterns. Children are usually picky eaters, liking foods with simple textures and flavors. A baby may like basic rice-cereal but, as a toddler, moves on to various dry cereals or to plain pasta. Children are generally interested in basic flavors--sweet or salty--and like predictable shapes and textures. Good luck trying to convince a toddler that a broken cheese-flavored cracker tastes the same as a whole cheese-flavored cracker.

Children generally dislike complex textures such the texture of broccoli. The buds on broccoli make for texture which is difficult for a developing brain to decode. The texture doesn't make sense.

As a child I preferred my spaghetti sauce to be served separately from my noodles, "next to" not "on top of." The meat as it browned smelled delicious, but when the ingredients were put together, I couldn't taste either the meat or the noodles. Hash still tastes this way to me. I also pulled appart sandwiches, eating baloney separate from bread. I'd lick the frosting off cupcakes before eating the cake. These preparations simplify the flavors of food. Now we call this type of preparation food "deconstruction." Apparently it's the hot new trend in cooking, but children have done it since time immemorial.

As an adult I detest plain noodles. They're just too boring. I don't eat cake unless it's got something unusual-- fresh fruit, mocha filling--or I'm hungry and it's the only food available. I want something interesting on top of my noodles maybe some anchovies or some capers. Definitely some garlic. Maybe fresh garlic sautéed in olive oil until it just starts to caramelize. My brain already knows the taste of noodles. There is nothing else to be learned from eating bland pasta. It wants combinations of flavors and textures: bitter and sweet with smooth. Salty and sour with crunchy.

For the brain to make sense of sensations--hmm similar words--it has to encounter the same pattern repeatedly. The brain will seek to repeat the pattern until the activity becomes boring. How often it needs to encounter a pattern varies from individual to individual. A person who has autism needs to encounter the same pattern many more times than does a person with a typical brain. But whose brain is typical anyway?

I only read one Nancy Drew mystery before I became bored with it. Yet I'm still fascinated by Rudyard Kipling's Elephant's Child. The line "The great gray-green greasy Limpopo River all set about with fever-trees," still tastes good to my brain.

In writing novels I'm attempting to feed the brain a really tasty pattern. I've got to get the mix between expectation and surprise just right. If it's too unusual the story tastes like hash. If it's too predictable it's boring. The same mix won't work for every reader because of variation in individual brains.

Enjoyment of food and of novels isn't entirely alike. Food must feed both the body and the brain. If nothing else is available I'll eat plain noodles, eat them without complaining. But if a novel fails to fulfill the cravings of my brain, I will stop reading.

As a writer, I have a dilemma. Should I limit my writing to simple easily understandable patterns, the equivalent of plain noodles, or should I write patterns which take more sophistication to understand? The blockbuster model of publishing says write plain noodles, make the story understandable to nearly everyone. But that leaves an entire range of readers starving. Simplistic writing isn't adequate to their needs. It's not adequate for my needs as a writer.

I believe if I trying to write plain noodles I should do it with pride, but when I'm driven to write pasta with puttanesca sauce I shouldn't forego the anchovies and capers.

There are those who insist that fiction must follow similar restrictive and arbitrary rules, similar to saying spaghetti can only have marinara sauce. These rules are basically codified personal taste, similar to an autistic toddler announcing that broccoli is yucky and throwing it across the room. Many adults also dislike broccoli, but it's not the fault of the farmer who raised the broccoli, the cook who prepared it, or even of Mother Nature who packed it with vitamins, nutrition, fiber, color, and all that. Broccoli isn't inherently yucky. It's a matter of personal taste, meaning it’s a matter if neurological development.

What can I say to them when they gag on my offering? Yes, people do gag when they expect one flavor and get another. This doesn't indicate that, for example, puttanesca sauce is poorly made. It merely has been tasted by a diner has never encountered red spaghetti sauce other than marinara, and that diner's brain isn't yet ready for that pattern of sensation.

I Live to Write

2011-02-19T10:16:00.001-09:00

Yesterday, I finished the breakfast dishes and looked around the office. Yes, my office and my kitchen are all in the same room. That’s fodder for another blog. Anyhow, everything was caught up. Wha??? What does that mean? Caught up?

I had time and I didn’t know what to do next. I found myself immobilized by an abundance of time. That ethereal substance we all have so little of, ‘I don’t have time’, ‘time just got away from me’, ‘If I only had more time’. I had a list of projects and still didn’t know what to do next.

Eons ago when I worked at a real job I punched a clock and I wished for a wife. Someone to do the little time consuming errands so I could have time. Time, I didn’t know what the heck I’d do with time but even sleep would have been a luxury. I organized, manipulated, listed in order of importance, I thought ahead, planned ahead, economized and utilized my time efficiently. I could get more done in one lunch hour than some do in a week.

Then I quit working ‘out’ and began to work from home. I planned to do a little bookkeeping for my husbands business. Primarily, I had the fantasy that I could take off my watch and write my novels. I’d stay in my pajamas, coffee in hand, answer my e-mail and write my books. We all know those stories some of us even know those writers. Life was good. I took off my watch. But, priorities get skewed.

The pajamas and the coffee haven’t changed but the business did. I’m answering the phone with bed-head, happy that the customer doesn’t know I haven’t brushed my teeth yet. The real juggling act has become filtering out the time it takes to do the job and still being able to do the work that I love.

When someone says they like working at home I purse my lips and wonder, ‘do I’? I still have a job, but I get to do it in my pajamas. I’m at home but my fantasy hasn’t turned out like I planned.

At a recent writer’s conference we were advised to rethink the phrase, “I can’t, I have to work.”
When someone says that, the conversation is over. When we say, “I can’t, I have to write,” the whining, wheedling and justifications begin.

Our task is to filter the job from the work. I live to write, my job simply takes time. My struggle is to separate again the time for writing and the time for the job. What tricks do you use to filter your writing from your job?

DeNise

Going Wild in Alaska

2011-02-11T13:42:00.007-09:00

I've been living in Alaska for almost four years, but GO WILD is the first book I've set there. I think I was too nervous to offer my take on Alaska to my new friends! (Of course, I love the place, but it has its quirks.)

I also didn't feel qualified until I'd lived here a few winters. Alaskans call newcomers "cheechakos," which probably means something like "I give her six months before she runs screaming." Oldtime Alaskas are called "sourdoughs." I'm not sure how long you have to be here until you've earned that title. And I'm not sure I want it. Sour? Doughy? Not the sexiest term I can think of.

But now that I'm in the vague zone between cheechako and sourdough, I finally feel brave enough to set a story in Alaska. This state has much inspiration to offer, and as an erotic romance author I put my own twist on. To enjoy life in Alaska, you have to find some way to get through the winters. So I put my naughty imagination to work and asked the question, what if a (completely fictional) town held a midwinter festival during which all normal rules of proper behavior were suspended and only one rule applied--"Anything goes, nothing counts." Kind of like going to Vegas without the slot machines.

And that was the inspiration for GO WILD, out now from Ellora's Cave. It's super-extra-steamy, but I have a good excuse. Winters are long and hard here in Alaska!! Here's the blurb:

Lars loves Katia. Katia loves Lars. Lars wants to marry Katia. Can he convince his free-spirited lover that marriage will be as fun as her sexually adventurous single days?

Never before has Katia been tempted to give up her carefree ways. She’s deeply in love with Lars, but she doesn’t know if he can handle her wild side—or wilder needs. But Lars is a hard man to resist. The former Olympic champion won’t give up, not when he knows just how to please her.

The people of Wild, Alaska, know the best way to survive winter is to let off a little steam. When his buddies hit town for Wild Nights, a notorious winter festival with one rule—“anything goes, nothing counts”—Lars has the perfect opportunity to prove he’s the man for Katia.

Lucky for Katia, “proof” includes four rugged Alaska men and one wildly erotic night.
Reader Advisory: Features an extended ménage (M/F/M/M/M) and references to bondage experimentation and sexual escapades of all types. Woohoo!

If you'd like to read an excerpt, here's the link. Enjoy the rest of the winter!

Juniper Bell

Seriously...

2011-02-02T10:49:00.000-09:00

As a serious writer, you probably have a writing plan…but do you have a technology plan? You should. For those who aren’t sure where to start, I’ll share my own set-up with comments that might help you make decisions regarding what’s right for you.

SECURITY/ANTIVIRUS
• Microsoft Security Essentials stands up in comparison with the popular Norton and McAfee. The biggest difference is that it’s free! Keep in mind that if you install two different antivirus programs, it’s NOT double the protection. They will conflict and compete with each other and slow your computer down significantly. No matter what program you use, remember they aren’t full proof. You still need to be smart and take care where you click. This is why you need a backup plan in case you need to wipe and restore your system and files.

BACKUP PLAN: External hard drive and Reputable off-site storage

• Windows 7 allows a system image onto an external drive with one click. An external drive has limitations as a back-up of course. It could get lost, stolen, wiped, destroyed, etc.

• For $55/yr, you can store your system image on a backup site. I use Carbonite but there are plenty of great products out there. You want a program that will backup both your applications (like Word, Liquid Story Binder) and files (your documents/pictures/videos).

CLOUD COMPUTING
• This is great if you want to share documents with others. I have several collaboration projects and give folder access to specific people. The most recent document (as well as previous versions) will always be available in the “cloud.”

• Microsoft Skydrive – Get 25 GB for free

• Dropbox is good too, but only offers 2 GB for free. If you refer enough friends you can get up to 8 GB free. The only reason I have Dropbox, is because it’s used by several friends.

SOCIAL NETWORKING
• Windows Live Writer (free) is a huge timesaver for blogging. You can use it offline, organize partially written blogs, schedule them to post, etc. When you’re done, one click will post them to any site you designate – your website, Facebook, MySpace, etc.

• For Twitter and smaller posts, I just changed to HootSuite (free) and love it. First it’s web-based so you don’t need to download anything. That also allows you to access it from anywhere. Additionally, HootSuite lets you post to multiple accounts and schedule tweets.

VoIP – Voice Over IP (phone over the internet)

• Skype & Skype Recorder (free) – for chatting to anyone around the world (with voice only or with video), making audio podcasts and to record research interviews. You may want to grab a $10 headset with built in microphone to keep your hands free to type.

TRAILERS
• I’ve only tried it once, but in two hours I used Windows Movie Maker to make my first trailer for Write at Sea.

PASSWORD MANAGEMENT
• After a backup plan, if you only decide to do one other thing from this list, I recommend a password management tool. It’s ridiculous how much time it will save you from looking up user names/passwords. There are many out there, but I love using LastPass. Oh, Oh…I know I need to wrap this up but LastPass just bought a Xmarks, which saves your bookmarks for when you write/research on different computers. It’s such a great concept.

Oprah has her favorite things, and I guess these are mine! Did you notice almost all of them are free? Please don’t think that free means less quality. For the one thing that isn’t free, an off-site backup, that’s one item you can’t afford not to buy.

Please comment to share your favorite gadget or if you use/try any of these tools, I’d love to hear what you think.

All the best,
Julia Hunterwww.julia-hunter.com
Twitter: FollowJulia & CrazyCrimes

Writing as a Refuge

2011-01-14T20:32:00.003-09:00

I take refuge in my writing. During difficult times writing has offered me a place to lose myself, a place where I lock in and focus to the point of losing track of time. Other things effect me this way; time in the dark room developing photographs, a bike ride on a beautiful Summer day, spending time with those I love in mirthful fits of giggling, watching an amazing film. However, those things are not always available to me. Writing is accessible. It's in my house, on my computer, and in my brain.
I must admit corporate writing doesn't give me the same escape as fictional writing. Business writing has its own reward of a job well done. Knowing that your little spin on something might be the selling point that people will remember and take with them. fiction writing offers an escape to another world far away from everyday life. Of course most of the fiction I write is historic, although I do have one set in the future, I have a time travel and a Super Hero story set in contemporary times.
Of late, my current escape is revising an Amazon war story set in ancient times. Does that ever take me out of the real world, to a culture where women were expert in their horsemanship, fierce warriors able to take down Kings. There will be no moment when one of my Amazon characters has to balance a checkbook, fill out a timesheet, call to make an appointment, or have a run in their hose. No, my amazons are occupied in a battle that will offer protection to their future generations. They are dashingly confident, intelligent, cunning, resourceful, and wise. Their culture is rich in stories and rites. They own themselves and belong to their ancestors and their destinies.
So, that is my latest escape at the end of a difficult day. I can roost on the shoulders of these characters and watch the life I create for them, unfurl.

Carmen

Editing: Does it REALLY matter??

2011-01-05T14:22:00.005-09:00

Spell checkers and other editing things.

Love them or hate them, they are helpful and useful tools. In fact, I recommend every writer have Spell Check turned on at all times. In MSWord, that little red line will help you catch misspellings immediately. Then there's the blue line to alert you to the wrong spelling, or possibly the wrong word—also a useful tool. The green grammar lines? Those I tend to ignore since fiction writing takes some liberties with proper English.

However.

Yeah, you knew that was coming. However. These built-in tools in super-smart word processing programs do not take the place of the human eye and, I hope, human intelligence.

After the program has done its best to help is when a really sharp-eyed editor or beta reader comes in. Someone who can catch the things your MSWord program and tired eyes won’t. There, their, and they’re all sound the same with very different meanings. She’s and she’d are very easy to mix up with the “s” and “d” keys being side by side. I see loose and lose mixed up more times than I care to mention. Your program won’t flag any of the above as misspelled.

Same with roll and role. “He acted out his roll with finesse and skill.” Does this mean he knew how to play a bit of bread? (Ha! Word just tried to correct the word for me. I set it straight.) I suppose it could mean he did a perfect job of rolling down the hill, across the floor, into bed… but in the context of the story, this was not the meaning.

I recently found this sentence in a published book: “He drew in a shaky breath, tried to recall if this was how he felt about her first kiss as a green lad of fourteen.” One word. Just one word is out of place here and makes the sentence ludicrous. Yet to a spell checker program everything is just hunky dory. Had that been the only instance of an error, I probably would have blown it off. Sadly, it was one of at least half a dozen errors that leaped off the page and threw me out of an otherwise entertaining story.

Of course, I’ve seen the spell checker do harm by trying to correct a word here and there. A badly spelled word can be switched in the blink of an eye. Back in the day when I edited technical reports for scientists, I caught one trying to marinate a laser. He’d tried to type “maintain” but mangled it so badly MSWord changed the word to “marinate.” I learned to read his reports very closely.

The key here is editing. Careful, thoughtful, intelligent human editing. A good edit will catch these little goofs that can cause an author’s intelligence and education to be called into question. Yes, typos will at some point escape everyone. It happens. I’ve seen it in NYT bestseller books. If there are no more than two per novel, those are easily shrugged off. More than that? Well, that’s where credibility begins to be called into question.

Years ago, two or three at least, I was reading a book released by my then publisher (the book was not mine, thankfully) and was horrified to see that consistently throughout the book, barely (Merriam Webster Definition of BARELY 1: in a meager manner : plainly 2: scarcely, hardly) was consistently replaced with barley. (BARLEY: a cereal grass.)

I’m sure the author knew the difference between the two, but no one caught the misspelling before release. One time in a novel, well, ok. But more than two dozen times? The author really liked that word, I suppose. Too bad it was the wrong one. At least it was consistent? Nah. Bad ju-ju all the way around.

Which leads me to something I’ve said since the days I was an editor and in charge of other editors who had the joy of editing my books.

NO-one is above editing, least of all me.

I don’t care who you are, or how many novels you’ve sold world-side, we ALL make mistakes. Whether from reading a manuscript too many times, fingers hitting the wrong key or an extra key, or MSWord trying to help out, we all need one more pair of sharp eyes to help us see the tiny errors hiding in the text. Or the not so tiny errors, such as missing words or extra limbs appearing in a love scene. Or the magical leap across the room complete with bouncing eyes. Or unintentional time or head hopping. Or changing hair/eye color without a reasonable explanation. No writer is immune.

Bottom line here. For all the “eyes” who beta-read and edit your brilliantly written book (novella, blog, etc.), the final responsibility falls to you, the author. That’s what galleys are for. They’re our last chance to make it perfect. Never, ever, rush this stage, or you might have me gently knocking at your inbox with a kindly worded email, which you’ll hopefully take to heart in the spirit intended: support and assistance.

Okay, seriously, only my closest compatriots get those emails. I barely have time to write my own novels and beg for critiquing without adding more to my plate. Because with what I throw at them? I get it back ten-fold. Lord love my crit partners, because I sure do—after I finish whining about their comments.

So what do you do? I’ve heard of several things authors do to help catch these little things.

Read the work out loud.
Read it backwards.
Read it very slowly, out loud, and backwards.
Know your weaknesses and do searches for them.
Surround yourself with excellent critique partners who will actually give you the bad news that your grammar stinks. Better them than a reader or reviewer.
Find a beta reader who excelled in English. (Mine beat me bloody about improper and over-usage of the word “that.” Still does to this very day. And no, you may not have her name or email address. She’s all MINE.)

I’m sure there are many more techniques out there. I’d love to hear yours. Maybe it will help me do a better job. (And yes, I had at least three people read this article! Any mistakes still here remain entirely my own fault.)

Morgan Q. O'Reilly

Get Some Tonight

http://morganqoreilly.com

The Joys… and Sorrows of Being a Writer!

2010-12-13T04:21:00.016-09:00

Last week a friend gave me a copy of Nicholas Sparks’ Three Weeks With My Brother (http://www.nicholas sparks.com/LearnMore.asp?BookID=9).She promised an insightful and entertaining novel. Now, being familiar with many of his books (The Guardian, Nights in Rodanthe, Message in a Bottle, Dear John, The Lucky One, The Notebook, etc.) and in the wake of such praise I was eager to jump right into the book. Though I must admit my tastes for pure entertainment reading run more toward the Sci-Fi/Fantasy and action romances, I needed some R&R. Considering the fact that I had not read a book since January when I purposefully limited my reading in order to finish and edit my latest book, I was more than ready for some relaxing hours on the couch submerging my mind in someone else’s world.

Familiar as I am with Sparks’ writing and a fan of several of the movies made from his books, I looked forward to not just a good read, but a great read! The anticipation was almost as good as the moment I sat down to crack the cover and discover the secrets of brotherhood. To my surprise and complete disgust, I found myself evaluating each paragraph as I read, looking for similes and metaphors, checking for spelling errors and POV changes. I hunted through the text for dangling modifiers, passive and active voices, over use of conjunctive adverbs, weak plot points, nominalization, and a host of other no-nos of the professional writing world. Half way through the book I realized I was not enjoying myself at all but intensely studying the manuscript. My mind wound around Sparks’ witty dialog and found doublemeaning in every comparative passage. I carefully examined the style and timing of his past and present recitations. I questioned the placement of memories, drawing parallels between the current day trip of the two brothers and Nicholas’ trip through childhood with Mica. In short, I spent three days passionately immersed in a novel written by one of the most successful writers of the contemporary market. By the time I finished Three Weeks With My Brother I was exhausted, depressed and disgusted with myself. It seemed my reading for pure pleasure was ruined! Possibly…

I think at some point, all authors reach the same stage in their own personal struggle to write as I have; the point where you can no longer pick up a book for simple enjoyment but where everything you read becomes an elemental study of the craft of writing at some conscious level. A problem, to be sure, but only bothersome if over done.

Then, true to my overly obsessive form, I saw the problem grow to encompass my entire life! What did I say about over done? Now when I travel every encounter, every new tidbit of information is fodder for a new story. When I go out to dinner with friends, their personal anecdotes burrow into my work manifesting some new plot or character. Political intrigue of the day colors my plots and lends imaginative scenarios to my manuscripts. I have even taken to keeping a journal of story starters close at hand. Had anyone told me a few years back I would be carting around a journal and taking notes on life I would have laughed at them. What is that famous saying; he who laughs last?

For example, one evening last fall my husband, Tim and I attended a dinner party with old family friends. Being new to the area, our “old friends” invited us to their home in Baltimore to catch up and for some “family talk”. Little did we know our friends had also invited their uncle and aunt who are, in the distinct eastern manner of speaking, old Baltimore. Fascinating people, Uncle Joe and Aunt Bev lived exciting lives and in their nineties, still worked at their antiquities business. The history of their connections and social networks were captivating. We sat for hours around the dinner table listening to tales of Uncle Joe, Aunt Bev and the rich and famous of America and Europe. At one point Uncle Joe mentioned his brother, an infamous antiquities dealer who currently lived in France with his family. In his nineties as well, he was still awaiting a trial in Italy on charges of illegal dealing in antiquities. Any writer out there just get the chills? Hang on because it gets better!

During our conversation it came to light that Uncle Joe and his brother were children in France during WWII and their mother worked as a secretary tabulating the possessions of Jews as the Nazis pillaged the wealthy Jewish families of Europe. My mind spun out of control and all the way home I crafted a wild tale of a secret cache of stolen antiquities pilfered during WWII that one family was responsible for returning to their owners as a kind of generational atonement.

I could hardly sit still in my seat. Ever supportive, my husband drove quietly with a willy smile pasted on his face. He had learned from experience there was no stopping the mind of a writer once it had locked and loaded on a story! By the time we got home I was in a rush to find my computer and outline the next best seller. Tim just went to bed. Such is life with a writer's spouse. Hours later when I dragged myself up to bed my wonderful husband didn't even gasp at the cold feet and frigid hands. He rolled me up in his warmth and murmured in my sleepy ear, "When you get a contract don't forget my cut!"

I believe the most telling moment came when I was watching an action movie on opening day with Tim and a guy from my office. All three of us are dyed-in-the-wool hard core action fans so it's become a tradition to attend opening days of true shoot-'em-ups. As we sat glued to the screen delighting in one special effect after another amid crashes, gunfire and explosions I calmly stated, “for an action flick the hero’s dialog is way too passive.” My husband, bless his heart, just shook his head, smiled and handed me the popcorn bag! He had already figured out what took me a little more time to realize. You can take the writer out of the office but a writer is a writer and always will be.

Pursuing writing as a professional has truly changed the tenor of my life. That epiphany could have been discouraging, but it wasn’t. I soon realized I had not destroyed my reading and viewing pleasure but simply taken it to new heights! In my case the realization was not only encouraging but optimistically validating. When I told Tim about my intuitive leap of self-understanding, he got that look that said "I've known for a while even if you are just figuring it out." Did I mention his patience?
While I may not enjoy reading for the same kind of pleasure I used to, I have attained a new level of awareness of the craft of writing which is a joy in and of itself.
In simple terms it means I have finally become what I have bee
n striving to be. Finally, I am a professional writer, even dare I say, an author!

Miriam Matthews

For more information about Miriam's books go to: www.miriammatthews.com

The Alaska-Hawaii Connection

2010-12-03T02:00:00.002-09:00

I’m about to let you in on a well-kept secret about Alaskans. I only discovered this when I moved up here. It came as a bit of a surprise…but then again, not really. Alaskans LOVE Hawaii. After all, it’s only a five-ish hour flight from Anchorage to Honolulu, from the Arctic to the Tropics, from ice fields to lava flows.

It’s much easier to get to Hawaii from here than to the East Coast. I know quite a few Alaskans who try to take a well-timed mid-winter trip to Hawaii each year.

Myself included.

I happen to be getting married in Hawaii at the end of this month. I keep meeting other Alaskans who tell me they got married in Hawaii, so I think my choice of location is perfect. And it got me thinking about the Alaska-Hawaii connection.

It goes way back. In 1778-9, during his final voyage, Captain Cook explored both Alaska and Hawaii—meeting his unfortunate end on the Big Island. More recently, Alaska and Hawaii were the last two states to join the Union. We’re also the only non-contiguous states, never feeling that we’re entirely part of the mainstream of American life.

Other common ground: Hawaii and Alaska are the only two states with indigenous populations who are not Native Americans. Both states rely on imported goods that have to travel long distances, which makes prices ridiculously high. Both states, with their spectacular scenery, are tourist destinations. Plenty of workers in the tourist industry spend summers in Denali and winters at Hawaiian resorts. Both states have active volcanoes and both have been struck by tsunamis. In both states, there’s a constant sense of living at the mercy of nature, whether it’s Pele the Volcano Goddess in Hawaii, or the bitter cold in Alaska.

Alaskans love for Hawaii isn’t a one-way street. I’ve found that Hawaiians have a fondness for Alaska too. I’ve been told it’s because they appreciate how difficult it is to survive here. I’ve seen many Hawaiians turn extra friendly when they find out I’m from Alaska. I’ve even gotten discounts on roofing materials and such. Maybe it’s because they feel sorry for us. Maybe it’s because we Alaskans appreciate Hawaii all the more when we stumble off the plane in our wintry, light-starved state.

Here’s what we do when we travel to Hawaii in the winter. We blast the heat in the car. We leave our winter boots, coat, long underwear, hat, gloves, and scarf in a tidy bundle, then run into the airport in our shorts and flip flops.

Of course, this time I’ll be bringing my wedding dress too.

Jenny Bernard

www.JennyBernard.com

Metaphors and Rivers

2010-11-19T00:01:00.006-09:00

For my current WIP I needed a metaphor. Preferably something to do with water. I’d already used one concerning sirens, and needed something deeper.

Deeper.

Still waters run deep.

Ever stop to think about that old saying?

The old adage immediately brought two images into my mind. The first, a cheerful, sparkling, babbling brook tripping down the stones of a garden. The other, a wide, flat-surfaced creek. The exact picture that came to mind was Sally Field and Rob Liebman in the movie Norma Rae, swimming in the crik. Other images of steady waterways in my mind include the Yukon and Mississippi Rivers. I’ve actually spent more time sitting and watching the Yukon than I have the Mississippi, which still isn’t saying much. Neither can be counted in hours or days.

Anyhow, to get on with my metaphor situation--ahem, I sidetrack easily--some people are like brooks and streams. Bright, pretty, active. They provide a pretty melody, and if there’s no other source of water around, they could, in a dire emergency, keep you alive. Provided there’s not a drought going on, as they’re amongst the first of water sources to diminish and dry up. And if you were a small fish, or a leaf, you could catch a ride on a stream and tumble your way down to the larger creek or river or lake it runs into. Useful in a limited capacity, sometimes all you need from a stream is a pretty song, a peaceful interlude, and time to luxuriate in its beauty. You can see right clear through to the bottom and might see your distorted reflection smiling back at you. When stormy weather comes, they bubble up fast and furious. A strong enough storm can change their course and rearrange the rocks along the way, perhaps forever drastically altering the nature of the stream.

On the other hand, there's the broader, steadier, deeper river. The surface is mostly smooth, the water giving the appearance of slow movement, but sometimes when you climb in, you find the current is stronger than it looks. For the most part, you can depend on that river to be a solid predictable support. Water, fish, plants… it provides for an abundance of needs. It sustains life in many forms as well as means of travel.

Sure, there may be rapids along the way, but you generally know where they are and how to navigate through, or, around them. That’s not to say rivers are boring, but no means. Even they can change their nature, but usually it takes a pretty big event to rile them. A huge rainstorm or extra large chunks of ice breaking free in the spring can devastate for miles, wiping out homes and villages. The bigger they are, the more immense the havoc they wreak. All things in proportion. However, smaller storms often to unnoticed by them. They can absorb the tempest with hardly an extra bubble.

The power it takes to stir up a river is awesome, mighty and far reaching, but you know, in the end, eventually it’ll settle back down, possibly with a slightly altered course, maybe with a little more silt, or maybe with a whole lot less. But essentially, the changes won’t be great, and once more you’ll have your solid, dependable, nourishing river back.

So how does this metaphor work? Turn it around to the people in your life. Are you drawn to rivers or brooks? Of course it isn’t that simple. People are too complex to fit into a narrow description such as river or brook, but I think I can see signs here and there that make for amusing comparisons. Sort of like using astrology to figure out your friends and loved ones. Doesn’t always work because there are too many other factors at play. A Taurus with Irish ancestors. Now there’s a mix.

I find I’m drawn to both the brook and the river. I tend to be more river-like, slow and pondering and appreciative of a steady course. But every once in a while, I want to break out and let my bubbles go wild. I want to sing and dance and carry a pretty leaf along for a ride. I get to do this with my characters. Which woman is the hero most drawn to? He can have a most difficult choice. This is what makes my job interesting. I get to study both the brook and the river and the man choosing between them. Or the woman contemplating her options between attractive heroes. If she's really lucky, she lives in a world where she gets to keep one of each.

Maybe I should just stop with the dreaming and get the book written…

Morgan Q. O'Reilly

Come Play with Morgan and Get Some Tonight

http://morganqoreilly.com for books by Morgan O'Reilly and Shea McMaster

Available now: Borealis II A Space Anthology, Bleu Lies by Shea McMaster

Coming 2011 from Lyrical Press: Til Death Undo Us and Rachel Dahlrumple

It's a Wrap.

2010-11-05T10:35:00.001-08:00

Recently, I was bemoaning the fact that my flour tortillas has spoiled in the refridgerator. I was craving a turkey wrap.
"You mean burrito," my weekend helper said.
"No, a wrap," I explained, "one with cream cheese, turkey and lettuce."
"You mean a burrito," he repeated.
A little slow on the uptake, I replied, "No, it's a wrap."
He finally said, with a look, you know . . . the one meant to say, "Oh come on now, you know better than that," as the words he spoke finally hit home, "Anything you put in a flour tortilla is a burrito. We sometimes put scrambled eggs and wrap it in a flour tortilla to eat on the run."
The lightbulb finally went on. "A breakfast burrito, I get it.now."
The young man I was speaking with is of Mexican decent. He didn't take offense at my burrito ignorance, he was just trying to educate me.
The wrap up. So, now I know what a burrito is and a wrap is not. But, that leads me to my question, "What is a wrap?" If anything in a flour tortilla is a burrito, and you stuff a pita pocket, then is there really any such thing as a wrap? The ponderance of a wondering mind wants to know.
And that's a wrap folks.

Sandy Shacklett

The Future of Romance

2010-10-26T22:06:00.002-08:00

Last week, I had the opportunity to moderate a panel discussion on “The Genre of Romance” at the UAA Bookstore. (Thanks to Rachel Epstein for hosting us!) Kianna Alexander, Marcy Gentemann, and Jackie Ivie talked about romance writing, how the genre has changed over the years, and what the future might hold. They had interesting ideas and tidbits of information:

50% of people choose to buy a book by the cover.

There’s a variety of subgenres including a line of romances with a Nascar theme.

It may be easier to get published in romance nowadays, but harder to stay published.

In August of 2010, the tide turned and more ebooks were published than print books.

One area of agreement was that ebooks will continue to be popular, but print books will be with us for some time to come. Our authors had great stories about writing romance, and their relatives’ response to having a romance writer in the family. They had quite a discussion about epublishing, self-publishing, and how the industry has changed over the last few years We also enjoyed hearing about their favorite authors; Barbara Cartland, Victoria Holt, and Beverly Jenkins were all influential. Our best guesses for future trends: environmental issues and more multicultural romance. What do you think is the future of romance?

Lynn Lovegreen

YA, the Next Big Trend?

2010-10-17T11:23:00.001-08:00

Dude, seriously? YA, the Next Big Trend?

In July I attended the Romance Writers of America Conference in Orlando, Florida and the talk was all about Young Adults. Just last weekend, I attended the Heart of the West Writers Conference in Park City, Utah and again the talk was about YA’s. I write romantic thrillers. I have no interest in writing YA or reading it, but many of my writer friends are jumping on the YA train. Even some of the industries biggest authors are breaking into the Young Adult market.

In the upcoming issue of November’s Romantic Times Book Review there is an article about Kathy Reichs breaking into YA. Gena Showalter already has along with Julie Kenner, Artist Arthur, and Maria V. Snyder just to name a few.

At this time in my career, I have no desire to write YAs. The main reason being is that I’m living a YA novel. I have four teenagers. When I read or write, I want to escape my teenage-infused life. Plus, in YAs there are boundaries. For those of you who don’t know me, boundaries and I don’t mix. Give me boundaries and I’ll try my best to bust through them. Ask my mother. I’ve had the boundary aversion since I was a child. Don’t tell me to color within the lines. Anyway, for me, there is only so far you can take characters in a YA. Especially when it comes to sex, murder, violence, all those lovely adult things. Yes, I hear you hollering, “Read Hunger Games!” I’ve heard many great things about this series but as of yet, I’m not enticed enough to pick them up. There again, because kids and teenagers are the main characters. I want to read about hot men and sexy women, characters my age or within a decade or so of my age.

With all the excitement about the YA market what does this mean for those of us who don’t write it? Will we have readers? What will happen to our market? Well, in my opinion, we are going to have more and more readers. Since the YA genre is breaking out so big that means more kids are reading. Hallelujah! Those kids are going to grow up, which means more and more adults will be in need of a good read. So I say, yes! Let the YA market explode, let them cut their teeth on Harry Potter, Twilight, and Hunger Games because those same readers are being groomed for what I am writing. And my romantic thrillers will be waiting to thrill them.

Tiffinie Helmer

www.KathyReichs.com

www.GenaShowalter.com

www.JulieKenner.com

www.ArtistArthurBooks.com

www.MariavSnyder.com

Creative Gardening

2010-09-24T00:01:00.001-08:00

Creativity is like a growing plant. A writer must nurture it, water it every day, and fertilize it with a balance of ideas from many sources. If you do this, it will grow.

But what about acts of nature that sabotage your garden? What about the hailstorm of the loss of a job, or the flood the death a loved one may cause, or even the sunshine drought of visiting relatives preventing the proper care of your creativity?

My latest manuscript suffered a few acts of nature this year, and like one of those misshapen cucumbers that starts out fat and juicy at the stem end and tapers down to a shriveled, moldy blossom end, the manuscript has become inedible.

So I have decided the best thing to do is pluck the fruit and discard it before it sucks the energy from a plant that could produce more cukes. My writer friends have been like pollinating bees, and a new fruit has set in my mind, swelling with potential. Much as I might want to find a way to use the old manuscript, the best course of action is to redirect my creative energy. It is sad and exciting at the same time.

Have you ever had an act of nature sabotage your creativity? Were you able to save your fruit? Or did you find it best to put your creative energy elsewhere?

Holiday Weekends!

2010-09-06T15:58:00.003-08:00

Hooray for the Holiday Weekend

I write and like many writers who have full time jobs, family, school and daily responsibilities, I cram my writing time into any nook and cranny that I can. I enjoy these long weekends, because of the block of time I get for writing and revising. Writing isn’t an instant reward. Writing takes time, dedication and investment. Like playing a musical instrument you must practice diligently.

However, writing does have rewards, believe me, writers do not just chain themselves to a computer and suffer, (although suffering and chaining do happen on occasion). We write because we have a story that needs to get out of our heads, or it will drive us crazy. What the heck, writers are crazy, how many time have you talked things through about a work in progress and realized that you were talking to yourself just like the Crazy Cat Lady that lives a block over.

There is such joy in creating a world where you can make a vertical dive into a moment; to see, taste, touch, hear and smell the whirling moments of your story. Poets are the king of this style, they don’t even have to be linear, no worries about plot. However as a romance writer you need plot. And lucky us, we the romance writers get to capture that fabulous thing love. The intensity of meeting someone, being attracted, the initial rush of beginning a relationship, nothing is sweeter to a human. When you are in that experience of new, flushed love you feel like you can do anything, you glow with the power of the heart light radiating out of you.
How blissful, but it isn’t that simple. You have to have things happen to your characters or they have to do things. So plots and events must happen in order to drive your story otherwise it’s just boring to have two people lolling about in love. You’re so pretty, no you’re so pretty, and now I am bored and putting the book down.

I love my characters, they are so amazing and dynamic, so much smarter, cooler and better than I am. That Ian Fleming guy must have had a blast writing the Bond character. My characters have taken me to places and made me learn things. For example I learned to Fence, you know with swords and white jackets. I am not very good at it but it is an incredible form of exercise and a blast. Someday I will finish that story with my French Heroine who is an expert Fencer. It won’t be this weekend but some other Holiday when I can devote attention to her. Then one of these days I must learn to ride a horse. I look forward to that.

I salute you my fellow writers. It is not an easy thing to be a writer. It is a solitary occupation, it takes time, it doesn’t pay very well (unless you are those lucky few), it doesn’t say thank you and it doesn’t draw you a bubble bath (unless you are one of those tub writers). But remember you were compelled to write and it can be so much fun.

Carmen

Not the Usual Jitters

2010-08-21T20:09:00.002-08:00

So I have a new book coming out on September 1st and usually at this point, I’m jittery, a wee bit nervous, starting to chew my fingernails down to nubs. The writer’s insecurity comes through and I start to stress that this time, I’ve let my readers down. They won’t like it. It has too much sex (strangely, yes, that is one of my most frequent concerns). There isn’t enough plot. Something will be wrong with it.

With this release, I’m feeling little of that. I love this story. I think it’s the best thing I’ve written in years. My editor loved it as well giving me another boost of confidence.

Now the concern is…what if I’m wrong? What if readers don’t love my baby as much as I do?

Usually when a reviewer or reader comments negatively about some aspect of my book, I shrug it off. When a reviewer commented that Marvin and the Three Bears was mostly sex and no story, I couldn’t help but agree (that was kind of the point of that story after all).

But with Shadow’s Embrace, because I love it so much, what will I do? Crash and burn? Wail? Okay, I know myself, I’ll whimper, have a glass of wine, declare the reviewer an illiterate hack (it’s just something I do to relieve the stress) and move on.

It’s strange to have the confidence in a book and still feel the release jitters. After more than 25 stories, you’d think I’d get used to it. I guess it doesn’t go away. I guess the only choice is to make it part of the adventure!

Shadow’s Embrace comes out from Ellora’s Cave, Wednesday, September 1st.

Nothing's Wasted

2010-08-12T22:02:00.002-08:00

Writers are ghouls. We pretty up our nasty habits with labels like “literary” or “commercial” fiction. We call using our life experiences “enhancing” our stories, but we are cannibals. We take our experiences, good, bad, or the confused in-between visceral things we can’t name, and craft with every piece of them like Native Americans use a slain buffalo. Hide, guts, meat, bone, teeth…nothing’s wasted.

I once gave CPR to a young man who committed suicide by throwing himself head first off the balcony of a restaurant in downtown Anchorage. The second story balcony from which he’d fallen didn’t seem to be high enough to kill anyone, but he’d thrown himself over the railing head-first.

I’ll use that experience in my writing someday. Make good use of the image of everyone standing around, not offering to help. I just stood there too, gawking at the young man who seemed dead, not redeemable for a come-back-to-life coupon, with the dark blood thick under his head within a few blinks.

A twenty-something woman in a white dress leaped from the crowd, got down on her knees on the asphalt parking lot next to the spreading blood and began resuscitation attempts. Breath, breath—compress, compress, compress…

Shame rolled over me. I had CPR training too, but I hadn’t even thought to help until she threw herself into battle. I found myself kneeling on the other side, not sure how I’d gotten there. “How can I help?”

“You breathe for him, and I’ll do the chest compressions,” she said.

I tilted his chin, pushed on his forehead, pressed my mouth over that youthful, clean-shaven skin. I blew, heard gurgles in his chest, tasted blood and cigarettes in my mouth. I thought of stopping, it’s a good excuse to stop. But The Samaritan in White kept compressing the young man’s chest. Not a man…a boy, really, he didn’t look old enough to buy beer.

Pulled in the wake of the Samaritan’s courage and determination, I continued to blow into the young man’s mouth when it was my turn. The world narrowed to only us and our hard labor to nurture whatever life might remain in the boy after he’d done his best to be dead.

I searched for a spark of life in that slack face every time I raised my head, and knew he was surely dead from the blood that spread like sand from an hourglass until red flowed under the knees of the little Samaritan In White.

My breath started to crackle in my lungs. My allergies were reacting to the cigarette residue on his lips. I coughed, blew, coughed.

“Trade me places,” I said. “I can’t keep breathing for him. He’s been smoking, and I’m terribly allergic.”

We traded. It was hard to keep the rhythm going smoothly. She was so much better at it than I was. “One, two, three…” The Samaritan helped me keep count of the compressions, it was easy to lose track when my own breathing lagged far behind.

The ambulance arrived, and we ignored it. We kept up the rhythm we’d worked out like two parts of a CPR machine, until two EMTs ran up to us, saying in stereo, “We’ll take it from here. You can stop now.”

Feeling dizzy, my lips burning and swelling, I stood on trembling legs. My husband took my arm, urged and supported me away from the center of my temporary world.

“Are you okay?” my husband asked.

“No,” I said, and leaned into his side. He slung a heavy arm around me and we watched the EMTs put an oxygen mask on the boy’s face. They loaded him up in the back of the ambulance so fast I was envious of their speed. I’d done my best, but I couldn’t match their professional skills. I chided myself, You and the Samaritan in White did the best you could. I stared over at my teammate, the better half of our CPR machine, but could only see her back. Her group of pretty friends, twenty-something boys and girls bent around her like groupies, charming and solicitous of her wellbeing. She led her group away across the parking lot without a word or a glance in my direction. My chest was too tight to call out and ask her name. Tell her mine. I’d disappeared, already forgotten, my usefulness ended.

Eric helped me get to the pickup where it was parked on the street, and I climbed inside with his assistance. My lungs were gummed up and I could barely breathe—snap, crackle, pop--like Rice Krispies. I scrambled around in my purse which I hadn’t taken into the restaurant with me, found my inhaler and took three hits like a junkie, breathing as deep as the band around my chest would allow. My lips were on fire, and when I rolled the window open, the chill autumn air couldn’t cool them.

Yeah, I’ll use that someday. I’ll be in anguish. I will taste the blood of a hero or an enemy in my mouth. I’ll have a partner who’ll leave me bereft. My lips will catch fire, and my chest will go tight again, as though it’s filling with lead a teaspoon at a time. That moment will be cannibalized in dripping red bits. Perhaps I’ll throw whole chunks and severed fingers curled like question marks into the pot to stew. What are those floaty things? Push them back in. Taste for flavor--not enough blood. Give it another stir with my big writing spoon. Let the stew simmer until done.

--VA Worthington

Cinderella Stew

2010-08-05T23:10:00.004-08:00

This is a sorta-kinda-almost Cinderella story. Mine. Only it’s a stew-like mishmash because there’s no evil stepmother, or ugly stepsisters, or a King and Queen trying to marry off their Prince (hmmm, yummy plot, though). In the story I am rescued from scrubbing floors and doing laundry—but since I’m not actually forced to do those things normally, it’s not a big plot point. No pumpkins turn into carriages (although I turn into a pumpkin at midnight with enough Sex on the Beach. Hey now, clean up those minds—it’s just a drink), and no mice turn into horses, but Nashville does turn into the home of The Mouse.

My story does have a grand ball, but there are eight fairy godmothers (five writing peers and three editors who will forever be faceless and nameless). There’s no glass slipper—but there is a pretty golden necklace.

There’s also a shameless back story—forgive me for not weaving it in, but this isn’t a saleable manuscript anyway. In November I entered a contest—a fairly big one called the Golden Heart. In March I got a call telling me I was a finalist. I hadn’t been planning to go to the fancy ball where they celebrate the GH even though everyone else in town was going. But after March I knew I had to join them.

The ball began with a week of amazing preparations and events. If you’ve never been to an RWA convention (the official name of The Ball) it is an occasion of amazing energy and excitement. Over the course of several days, two thousand writers converge and start to mingle, network and meet new friends. It sounds cliché but—it’s dead easy to make friends at an RWA convention. All you need to do is lift your eyes and say ‘hello,’ in the elevator, at the registration desk, at a bar, or around a fountain. I walked up to one woman out of the blue and said, “I love your name, it’s perfect for a book.” We struck up a great conversation, exchanged cards and I hope to contact her when I get to contacting people (which is a completely different subject).

Aside from random writers, there are also celebrities. I saw, to name drop a few: Cherry Adair, Susan Anderson, Christina Dodd, Eloisa James, Kristan Higgins, Nora Roberts, Debbie Macomber, Jayne Ann Krentz … Mind you, these were mostly fangirl moments—Susan, Christina and Eloisa aren’t my new BFFs—but they are our Michael Jordans and seeing them, especially to say ‘hi,’ is awfully cool.

Workshops abound at the RWA conference, as do parties. If you want to know about a certain publishing house—there’s a spotlight for that. If you want to know about women of faith writing in the secular market—there’s a workshop for that. If you want to know how to make your urban fantasy more attractive to agents—there’s a speaker for that. And, if you belong to any group – there’s probably a party for that. The Beau Monde ball for regency writers; the Steam Punk ball for fantasy, futuristic & paranormal writers; the Harlequin pajama party for category lovers; Death by Chocolate for Kiss of Death members. Join a group—have a party!

My partying centered around that Golden Heart contest final. Sixty-six talented writers finaled in ten categories and we all joined an online chapter called The Golden Network exclusively for GH finalists. The group holds its annual meeting and “boot out” ceremony, where they kick out all members who’ve published and make them alumni. They also held a workshop featuring an exclusive editor/agent panel. RWA held an official Rita/Golden Heart reception full of great desserts and a chance to really meet all the finalists and mingle with roving editors and agents.

On that note, I think the most important skill I honed this year was how to schmooze an editor or agent. There are funny stories (my best being the agent who approached me, asked for my pitch, excused herself in the middle of it with an apology, promised to come back, came back but didn’t ask for any more of the pitch. Either the Mickey ears I forgot I was wearing were a REALLY bad idea—or she was friends with an ugly stepsister I don’t know about). Anyway, let me share my personal list of opening lines. (Look at this as a really bad bar scene):

I loved what you said in your panel discussion
I love your agency’s website
I love your philosophy of the publishing industry
We have a mutual friend
How do you do this all day? I’m very impressed
How is your own writing coming?
It’s a pleasure to meet you
I put a big star by your name in my notebook after the panel discussion
May I look up your guidelines on your website?
Thanks for the rejection

I honestly used every one of those lines. And, BTW, the ‘thanks for the rejection’ actually got me a request for my Alaska series. You have to be shameless I guess.

Finally, the week culminated with The Actual Ball, aka the Rita/Golden Heart Award Ceremony. It’s not a secret that I won my category, and I’m still in shock. But just for the record, this event is a must-do if you go to conference, whether you’re up for an award or not. Wanna see RWA’s version of Oscar night? This is it.

To end my Cinderella Stew story, I’d like to share what it was like to actually win the Golden Heart. All kidding and silliness aside, this is one of the biggest honors of my life so far and, darn it, it was fun. I remember most of it—but it’s kind of like a slideshow in my brain that goes like this:

*People asking all day if I’m getting nervous and me saying unequivocally ‘no.’ *Sitting at the banquet table with a note card, writing a list of people I should thank should the unbelievable happen. *Deciding writing any kind of note is a jinx. *Tucking the half-finished list away in my purse. *Not caring at all if I won because it’s an honor to be a finalist. *Deciding, after seven winners are announced that, no, I really, really want one of those necklaces. *Sitting stock still except for my ping-ponging heart and my knuckles bracing white against my teeth while they announce my category’s finalists. *A crazy, far-away voice saying, “And the Golden Heart goes to --- “Songbird” by Lizbluth blub blulb mumble mumble …..” *Finding the unfinished list in my purse. *My mouth hanging open as I stand up and walk to the stage. *A very cute cameraman grinning at me as he points the lens at my face. *Holding up my dress hem and not tripping on the stage steps. *Catching a glimpse of myself on the Jumbotron—totally surreal. *Realizing they were right at the rehearsal when they said we wouldn’t be able to see the audience. *Saying “Wow.” *Seeing exactly one face in the middle of the front row: Vicki Lewis Thompson—her gorgeous white-blonde hair glowing like a guardian angel’s. *Realizing that with her beaming at me, I had nothing to be nervous about.

Applause and a huge hug from my presenter, Roxanne St. Clair surrounded me—it felt like a hug from a big sister! A small but mighty ‘whoop’ from Jenny, Boone and Lizzie when I said, “Alaskan sisters” carried all across the ballroom. And then I had the necklace in my hand and was floating back to my table. A constantly streaming prayer in my head went, “ThankyouThankyouThankyouThankyou…” In fact, that’s still going on.

Okay—enough already. Cinderella ended up with a way-better equivalent to the glass slipper. She got home well after midnight without the gown turning into rags, and Prince Charming was waiting at home—but he was waiting. And when he hugged her a day later he said, “Well, I guess going to THAT party was worth it.”

Oh yeah, it was. And while my experience this year happened to be golden—don’t wait for something like that to send you to the RWA Ball. Friendships, schmoozing, classes and parties can turn anyone’s trip into Cinderella stew. And that’s a mighty fine-tasting treat!!

Happy Fairy Tales Everyone!

Liz

You're Live in Three, Two, One ...

2010-07-23T05:00:00.003-08:00

As I write this, my hands are shaking, my heart is flopping like a flounder, and I can’t catch my breath. I just did something I’ve never done before. I did a Live Radio Interview.

Gaaaack!!

See, I’m one of those “introverts” who panics when I’m in the spotlight. Sitting at the computer and writing comes naturally. Promoting my book online is a challenge. Actually talking to someone on the radio about it … Holy Freakout, Batman!

But I have a book coming out on July 28, and Tom Randell of Radio Kenai, KWHQ 100.1 FM, contacted me and offered the interview, so how could I say no? I agreed, and then fretted for several weeks as the appointed day came closer. I write erotic romance …. His audience ranges from age 2 to 90. Could I keep the content appropriate? How can I talk about my books without shocking anyone? Will Alaskans drive me from the state once the word is out? (Okay, I exaggerate, but hey, I’m a writer.) By the time of the interview, I’d worked myself to the edge of a nervous breakdown.

(Did I mention I’m a writer, with a tendency to exaggerate?)

I watched the minutes tick away, then there was Tom on the phone, telling me a song was playing and I’d be up in one minute and fifty-two seconds. And then there I was, on the air. Juniper Bell being introduced to the audience of one of the top radio hosts in the state. This is him. Not too scary, right?

And that’s when I realized I’d forgotten something. Tom Randell is a professional. He knows how to make the conversation flow, how to move smoothly to a new topic, how to make you sound good (or better, anyway). He’d been to my website, he knew about my books, he knew about my upcoming release. Before I knew it we were chatting about digital books, the rise of e-readers, the popularity of ménage stories, and other fascinating topics. I had to keep telling myself to slow down because I tend to talk too fast when I’m under pressure. The interview went so fast and painlessly. And I learned a lot in that short span of time.

1. Slow down.
2. Smile, even though they can’t see you. It helps you to sound positive and fun.
3. If you don’t feel confident, fake it.
4. Keep the audience in mind. Looking back, I wish I hadn’t said anything bad about the cool weather we’re having here on the Kenai peninsula. The listeners are Alaskans, so don’t knock Alaska.
5. Have my “elevator pitch” ready! As silly as it sounds, I hadn’t rehearsed my one or two line pitch for My Three Lords. This was a very good reminder as I get ready for the RWA conference in Orlando.
6. Relax and enjoy.

So there you have it. I survived my first radio interview, thanks to Tom Randell. He even invited me back for my next book release. Now, back to my regularly scheduled programming.

My Three Lords will be released on July 28 from Ellora's Cave Publishing. You can read the blurb and an excerpt at my website.

Juniper Bell

Another Conference

2010-07-15T21:00:00.000-08:00

Last year I went to my first conference. The amount of preparation for that trip was astounding and let's face it, a little neurotic. With RWA Nationals only a week and a half away, I've noticed that many preparations I thought important for my last conference, have fallen by the way side. I've yet to cook and freeze a single meal for my family. They won't starve without me here to feed them. They're made from hearty stock and won't go hungry, even if they have to kill dinner with their bare hands. The need to scrub the house from top to bottom is also gone. I've embraced the fact that my husband is a much better housekeeper than me. He's also a lot better at cracking the whip and making the kids tote their load. So housekeeping? Not an issue.

Unfortunately my self-sabotaging ways and overwhelming need to volunteer has landed me with a whole new list of 'To Dos'. The biggest one is my offer to help with decorating for the FFnP Gathering. This was a fairly easy task when the conference was in Nashville. The Gathering was slated to be held on a steamboat. Voila, decorating already done. Now it's to be held in a large rectangular ballroom. How does one person transform a large ballroom into a a steampunk ball? I'll let you know when I figure it out.

The bottom line is that most of what I need, I'll have to tote with me. I'm the kind of person that likes to travel light, so an extra bag or tote is cramping my style. I have promised myself not to bring a single balloon, feather, or piece of confetti back home, but I have a sneaking suspicion my chapter members hope I fill all that empty space with books for my return trip.

I'm sure things will work out for the best, but like my last conference, this trip has already taught me several valuable lessons.

1. Keep my mouth shut
2. Just say no
3. If I feel the need to volunteer give my services to something that doesn't require heavy lifting.

Who knows, after a few more conferences, I may have this routine down to a fine art.

Horses in Alaska?

2010-07-03T09:12:00.004-08:00

It always amazes me to hear how surprised people are when they learn how many horses and horse activities we have in Alaska. And these aren't just people from the Lower 48, the people right here in Alaska are also unaware of the horse population. The types and sizes of horses vary in Alaska, from the 32" high miniature horse to the 17 hand (68") Clydesdale, and all kinds and sizes in between.
Some people might question what you would want with a miniature horse only to find out that they make excellent companions, are easy to care for and can pull a full grown adult in a cart with ease. The Clydesdale on the other hand takes much more effort and cost to feed and clean up after, but their calm and willing disposition make them suitable for riding or pulling heavier loads or plow fields.
Quarter horses and Arabians are two of the most popular breeds in Alaska, but they are greatly out-numbered by the grade, or mixed breed horses. Each having their own place in the horse world depending on what their human counterpart would like to do with them.
Trail riding through the rugged Alaska terrain can be the challenge of choice, but horse shows featuring dressage, hunter/jumpers, barrel racing, western and English riding are held throughout the state with the Kenai Peninsula being the hot spot for rodeos. Most events are held between the months of May through September, but riding goes on year round.

There are at least 22 indoor riding arenas is Alaska, but the majority of folks ride outdoors. While the rule of thumb for riding temperatures vary slightly, most will agree that if it is under 10 degrees it's best not to take your horse out. They fare in the cold very well, but with the exertion it takes to carry extra weight their respiration rate would increase and you have to be concerned about their lungs.
Growing up in Anchorage with a horse gave me all kinds of activities to do, keeping me out of trouble. I can assure you that without my horse I would have been a high risk teen. It was more than just keeping busy, it was having the companionship of a non-judgemental, warm creature. You could confide in your horse and know that your secret would be safe. You could experience the joy of traveling at a pace that only riding a four legged creature could provide. The beauty and silence of riding through trails could be exciting or calming depending on where you were and the speed you traveled at.
Having control over an animal that weighs half a ton can give you confidence, and who couldn't use a little more of that. Hugging a miniature horse can take your stress away in a heart beat. Horses and humans came together many years ago. Today they remain as co-workers, friends and companions even here in Alaska.

--Sandy Shacklett

Sea Otters and Storytelling

2010-06-19T07:53:00.004-08:00

Like Lizzie said in the last blog, it’s the time of year for Alaskanwriting conferences! I just returned from the Kachemak Bay Writers’Conference, located in Homer, Alaska. There were four days ofspeakers, workshops, readings, and social events. The faculty was toobig to mention all by name, but the Alaskan and Outside speakers wereall top-notch presenters, and I loved hearing them read their own workat the readings.
This is one of my favorite conferences because of the camaraderie, therapport among the participants and faculty. Even if this is your firstconference and/or first year writing, you are welcome and part of thegroup. Everyone has opportunities to chat with the authors. There isnothing more valuable than discussing showing versus telling withKaren Joy Fowler (You need both.) or point of view with Joni Sensel(There can be more than one.).
Add the unique ambiance of Homer,excellent seafood, and the phenomenal scenery of Kachemak Bay, and youhave a world-class weekend. The only trouble I had was trying to focuson the speakers when I could watch eagles and sea otters through thewindow! Talk about inspiration for writing! I was glad to share it with my AKRWA colleagues Lizzie Newell andDeNise Woodbury, and I invite everybody to consider going next year!See the conference website at http://writersconference.homer.alaska.edu/.
Lynn Lovegreen

North Woods Writers Symposium

2010-06-12T11:09:00.006-08:00

It's nearly summer solstice, time for writers' workshops in Alaska. I'm just back from the North Words Writers Symposium in Skagway. If you weren't there you missed out on a wonderful opportunity, although I had my doubts when I flew to Juneau then took the ferry to Skagway. Registration procedures for the conference had been less than smooth. In fact on-line registration didn't work at all, so only the truly committed mailed in their registration. As a result, only thirty people attended and less than half were participants. Never before have I been at a conference where faculty was in the majority and participants were treated like VIPs. I sat next to some of the top writers in the state and spoke with them personally about their views on writing. Faculty attendees included: Buckwheat Donahue, Dana Stabenow, Jeff Brady, Elisabeth Dabney, Peggy Shumaker and Joe Usibelli, Kaylene Johnson, Sherry Simpson, Nita Nettleton, Dave Hunsaker, Tim Woody, Kim Heacox, Dan Henry, and Andromeda Romano-Lax.

I had the opportunity to hear Dana Stabanow giving Nick Jans advice. I went hiking with Tim Woody, Dan Henry, and Andromeda Ramono-Lax. In the excitement, I tended to forget who was faculty and who were participants. I particularly enjoyed Tresham Gregg who does puppet theatre out of Haines, Lisa Weissler who writes dystopian science fiction, Dan Davidson an editor from Dawson, and Art Chance an expert in history from Juneau.

The town and people of Skagway went out of their way to make us feel welcome. We had excellent meals at The Stowaway Café, the Red Onion, and Poppies. Poppies is located in a beautifully maintained garden with a model train running through it.

The conference included a train excursion aboard The White Pass & Yukon Route Railway. This narrow gauge railroad wound through steep gorges and over breath taking drops above raging turquoise rivers. I was torn between the stunning views of peaks, arêtes, and glacial tarns, and the writers discussing journalism, memoire writing, Alaska history, and fiction.

I hate to write up a blog entry that points how the rest of you missed out. Nah nah nana nah nah. But not all is lost. Next year, The North Words Writers Symposium will be in Dawson. I'm going. Either driving or flying to Dawson should be as interesting as visiting Skagway.

See you there. Lizzie Newell

Gone Fishing

2010-06-06T09:53:00.008-08:00

It’s June and that means I’m getting ready to head to Alaska to commercial fish on the Bering Sea. You’re probably wondering what this has to do with writing. You wouldn’t think the two had anything in common, but surprisingly they do.

My family fishes for sockeye salmon—red salmon for some of you that aren’t up on the lingo. We also fish with gill nets, not a pole. Poles are for sport fishermen on vacation. This is commercial fishing. Serious fishing where you cast a net into the ocean that is 200 fathoms and hopefully haul in 5,000 to 6,000 pounds (yes I said pounds) of salmon per net. Sockeye salmon weigh on average 8 to 10 pounds each.

Once in a while you catch something bigger. Like a king salmon. King salmon don’t fit in the small webbing of our net. They are simply too big. The only way we catch them is to snag them. Usually their mouth is snagged on the net. One hard pull and they could free themselves and often do. But sometimes you get one snagged tight enough that it stays caught until you’re able to pull it into your boat. We love these surprises and take up bets on how much they weigh. The above picture is of a king caught in just this manner and when weighed came in around forty pounds.

The big six in New York are the king salmons of the publishing industry. They are elusive and hard to catch. Much like a king. You cast your net—send out queries—hoping to snag a big fishes’ attention. When you do get that request, you’ve only got them by a tooth. One upset and they’re swimming away.

So what do you do?

First, you must cast your net wide and often. You quit fishing and you won’t get published. Ever. Second, you must have your manuscript in the best condition to send them and snag them so tight that you can pull them into your boat.

There’s a saying in fishing: “It’s called fishing, not catching.” But in order to catch, you have to fish.

Here’s to catching that big one. See you in August!

Tiffinie Helmer
Writer of Award-Winning Alaskan Romantic Thrillers.
www.TiffinieHelmer.com

The Henna Experience

2010-05-27T20:45:00.011-08:00

The Henna experience. How hard could it be?

I’m a writer, so I keep to-do lists and take notes hoping it will provide fodder for my stories. The older I get the longer my list of things to do gets. So, my friend, a fearless thirty-something said, “I brought you some Henna, it’s easy.”
I waited. I considered and weighed the consequences, because that’s what I do. Henna had gone on my list a long time ago. But in my experience when I jump in with both feet and hit the bottom there’s slime and I hate slime.
After a couple of weeks of dithering a day came and the stars aligned themselves. My husband was gone, it seemed a quiet day, what the heck, life is short, do the things on the list. This time I decided to dive in head first, so to speak.
Following the verbal directions my friend gave me I prepared: one bag of powdered Henna, a cup of cold coffee, olive oil, towels. I began mixing the concoction. How much was I supposed to use? All of the powder, all of the coffee, this is amusing I thought, olive oil to taste.
The dusty lump in my bowl wasn’t going to work, I added left-over tea. Then, I added water. Finally, a consistency that would go into my hair. My hair? Was I nuts? I reminded myself that women have been doing this for centuries. How bad could it be? I took a deep breath and dipped my rubber glove covered hand into the mess and began to apply it to my head.

This was not fun. I now had shredded alfalfa the color of a cow-patty dripping down my forehead and sliding down my neck. Enthusiasm waned but darn-it, I finish what I start. Application complete, I wrapped my skull in a plastic grocery bag and waited. Think about that for a minute. Forty-five minutes my friend said to let it sit, I cleaned up. Oh My God, this stuff is everywhere, my bathroom looks like I’d turned loose a three-year-old with finger paints.
Twenty minutes, I simply can’t do this anymore. I’m embarrassed to answer the phone, and then I have to clean the phone. By now the novelty is gone, I want this over with. I strip off the grocery bag and I now have a helmet of dried cow dung stuck to my head. I briefly consider washing my hair in the sink and start stripping off my clothes instead. The shower looks like a scene from Psycho and my drain is resistant to alfalfa.
A day later, the gray in my hair is now bright orange, a nice contrast to the auburn of what used to be my dark brown locks. My husband is amused, my friends say as little as possible. Will I do this again? Probably not, it’s sorta like the bungee jump off the Kuskulana Bridge but isn’t that what the list is about? I took notes.

Yours in the Henna Experience, DeNise Woodbury.

Weeding, Writing, and Arithmetic

2010-05-18T13:23:00.000-08:00

Today marks the one-month anniversary of my marathon-writing weekend. And I realize I have not written a single new word on my manuscript since then. Not one … stinking … weed.

Did I say weed?

Gardening season hit, and I’ve ignored everything but getting the ground ready and planted. Kind of my marathon-gardening month. Then I’ll ignore it for a month, until I realize I’ve got to catch up on all the weeds.

I love gardening as much as I love writing. They are both creative endeavors, a chance to put something on paper or in the ground and watch the leaves of a story unfold. But to be successful at either takes discipline. It takes visiting pretty much every day. If I were to spend a half hour weeding just 20 square feet of space every day – that’s a four by five foot area – I’d have weeded my entire garden in a month. (Yes, I have an enormous garden.) If I write 2000 words every day, I’ll have finished a rough draft of a novel in a month.

You do the math. A novel in a month. Give myself another month to polish it, and that would be six novels a year. Even if I took two months to polish it, that would be four books a year. Pretty amazing stuff. Most days, if I sit my butt in the chair and write, I can crank out 2000 good words in about 3 or 4 hours. That’s less time than a part-time job. And I want writing to be my job.

So from here on out, I will visit my creative landscapes. I will weed a little bit every day. And I will write a little bit every day. Between the two, I will have the best year of growth ever.

Weed 'em and reap!

(First published on www.tameralynn.blogspot.com)

My book is out!!

2010-04-06T05:00:00.000-08:00

Title: An Invitation: Ariel's Pet
Author: Qwillia Rain
Publisher: Loose Id, LLC
ISBN: 978-1-60737-561-6
Cover Artist: April Martinez
Price: $ 7.99

Ariel Valerian knew cooking techniques and recipes, but a Dominant like Dane Reese had her more hot and bothered than a dozen hours slaving in a steamy kitchen. And 'slaving' is just what she intends to teach her blond-haired, blue-eyed, oh-so-yummy surfer boy. He might be helping in the family cafe as a favor to her sister, but there was no way she was giving him the opportunity to play Dom with her.

For Dane Reese, Ariel Valerian is a full-figured pixie--a life-sized, blue-haired Tinker Bell in a chef's coat surrounded by the scents of chocolate and cinnamon and an aura of mind-blowing, sweaty sex. Too bad she's driving him insane with her determination to order him around. As a Dominant and half-owner of A Master's Gift Dane has seen his share of Dommes and submissives, and, no matter how she might deny it, calling him Master is Ariel's destiny.

Two powerful personalities; a contest to determine who is more adept at control; and less than thirty days to discover if Ariel will bow to Dane's command, or if Dane will become...Ariel's Pet.

Well, how's this for irony--my 6th book is releasing on April 6th.

An Invitation: Ariel's Pet is the second story following the Valerian sisters. Jennifer Cole's An Invitation: Alayna's Training came out in March and it began the adventure for the two sisters. I got to have fun with the younger sister and the Dominant sent to help her at the cafe the two women run. Poor Dane doesn't know what he's gotten himself into, but he will soon.

I was sooo excited with the research for this particular book because I love to cook. And to find foods that Ariel can use to seduce Dane with made it so much more fun. It was also extremely dangerous because the books that are available could easily bankrupt me if I bought them all.

Here's hoping your day is as fun and exciting as mine!! I love release day. It's even better when the release day falls within a vacation period from the day job. I'll be buzzing around the various yahoo groups and updating my MySpace and Facebook pages (avoiding the Twitter thing--way to easy to get addicted to that stuff--LOL)

Take care.

Qwillia

By Daylight Come Available Now!

2010-04-05T08:28:00.000-08:00

By Daylight Come was originally released as part of the Enter the Dragon Anthology but now...it's on its own. It's a fun, fast story about a woman who reads a spell from a book of dragon magic and soon finds herself with an injured dragon on her hands. With the FBI and the gorgeous local sheriff snooping around, Tina doesn't know what she's going to do. Oh, and did I mention the evil warriors trying to kill her dragon lover?

It's a m/f/m menage and a lot of fun. Enjoy!

Check it out at Ellora's Cave.

Training the Receptionist by Juniper Bell

2010-03-01T02:00:00.000-09:00

Sometimes you just have to take a chance. My new book, which comes out tomorrow from Samhain Publishing, is a risk because it's so different from my last book. "Doll," was an emotionally intense story of a woman struggling to free herself from memories of her abusive husband. "Training the Receptionist," on the other hand, is pure wicked fantasy. It's written in first person from the point of view of a cheeky young woman who lands her naughty dream job. Chloe, from "Doll," lived in the uppercrust world of a Senator's wife. Dana grew up in the gritty town of "Low-life, Long Island," as she calls it. Instead of a romantic island setting, "Training the Receptionist" takes place mostly in an office. "Doll" had one hero, this one has two.

The stories have only two things in common. Both have happy endings, and both were written by me.

Here's the blurb:

“Training the Receptionist” by Juniper Bell

Genre: Erotica

ISBN: 978-1-60504-949-6  Length: Novella  Price: 3.50  Publication Date: March 2, 2010  Cover art by Scott Carpenter

It’s her naughty dream job—if they’re satisfied with her performance…

Eager to escape her miserable existence in Low-Life, Long Island, street-wise Dana Arthur jumps at an entry-level position with the consulting firm Cowell & Dirk. As her training period begins, she quickly discovers she’s required to do more than take messages and order office supplies. Her job description contains some deliciously naughty duties that give receptionist a whole new meaning.

Simon has almost given up on finding the right woman who will please his clients as well as his demanding partner and mentor, Ethan Cowell. No one measures up—until Dana. Her inner fire and fearless nature are perfect for the job. No matter what wicked punishment he devises to chastise her for her on-the-job mistakes, she accepts with a relish that leaves him wondering which one of them is really in control.

The last thing he expects to discover is that she’s a perfect sexual soul mate he can’t bear to share. But share he must—it’s part of his business agreement. Unless he makes Ethan the deal of a lifetime…

So...as a relatively new writer, should I be trying to stick with what I know works, or should I be exploring new things? That's the question I struggled with. The answer I came up with was, write the story that comes to you. If it's in the same vein as the last one, fine. If not, what the heck! But more experienced authors might have a different take. I'd love to hear what other writers think of this question. And readers, do you like it when an author tries something new?

"Training the Receptionist" will be available here from Samhain Publishing. Come visit my website or blog for excerpts and more.

The Queen and I

2010-02-14T19:14:00.000-09:00

Queen Rania of Jordan told me the other day that she got back from a conference in Davos, Switzerland, just in time her son’s fifth birthday. She even sent me a photo of the whole family at the party. Yeah, we’re that close.

If by “close” you mean that I follow her on Twitter and she has no idea who I am.

But really, how cool is that? I get regular updates on the fascinating life of the coolest Queen in the world. Maybe it’s because I’m new to Twitter and still have stars in my eyes, but I love the fast-paced, intimate feel of Twitter. Besides connecting with readers and other authors, I love hearing about Kirstie Alley’s facials and Stephen Fry’s new Avatar pyjamas.

Let me backtrack and say that before I published my first book, I was living in the Internet dark ages. I had no website, had never blogged before, never joined a forum or chatted online. I had to scramble to become a fully functioning member of the online world. In the process, my world has expanded in amazing ways. It’s hard to believe that only six months ago, I barely knew what Facebook was. Now I have “friends,” “followers,” and even some “fans.” In this vast, confusing universe, it’s nice to find something in common with total strangers, including a Queen.

So I have e-publishing to thank for all these wonderful new relationships. Now I know that Queen Rania’s husband and son have the same birthday. I know that Red Lobster offers a new mechanical Shrimp Ride (okay, that was from “The Onion’s” twitter feed.) I signed a Twitter petition to get a book pirating site’s tweets removed. (It worked.) I know when Dear Author reviews a book. I know when my Twitter friends are working on their blurbs and when their books come out and what they’re having for lunch.

And I get to share my own news, from new book covers to the weird dream I had last night. Maybe someday Queen Rania will follow me back and I can tell her all about the cute thing my five-year-old said (when I told her it was time to brush her hair, she informed me she was “unavailable.”)

Are you on Twitter? If so, do you like it or loath the way it eats up all your time? Here’s me, @AuthorJuniper. Don’t be a stranger!

Juniper Bell

Good Words Gone Bad

2010-01-24T17:55:00.000-09:00

Today I wrote the same scene twice, once from the hero’s point of view, and then again from the heroine’s. This was not an intentional exercise to serve some purpose in characterization or a practice in sensory description. This was simply a process in my writing, and one that happens to me all the time.

I was writing a scene of sexual tension, which is harder than other types of writing for me. The first go round came across as creepy, a male thinking about a female in inappropriate ways considering the situation. The second version, in the female point of view, still didn’t feel right, and I couldn’t put my finger on why. And then on the drive home from the coffee shop, I had an epiphany. I have the action happening in the wrong setting. Time for the third re-write. I have no doubt that will require several passes before I get it correct as well.

To me, that is the crux of what it is to be a writer. “To write is to re-write,” so they say. I think I generally delete about 75% of my very first words on the page. Even this blog has been an exercise in deletion. My first words are always so bad, I refuse to even call them a “first draft.”

So why do I keep at it? Because that moment of epiphany is like a drug, a moment of extreme satisfaction that goes beyond merely putting words to paper. And because I can’t not write. Writing, even re-writing, is a joy for me. The weight of my laptop is like a favorite blanket as I puzzle out the words on the page. Each piece has to fit perfectly against the next, until the entire picture becomes whole. Between the epiphany and the puzzle of words, I love the satisfaction of finally getting things “right.”

To all you other writers out there, here’s to inspiration and to getting things “write.”

FARKLING MY LIFE AWAY

2010-01-15T09:01:00.000-09:00

Facebook, it’s everywhere. Everybody who’s anybody has a Facebook page. But, I’m old school and was resistant to hopping on that trend train. My fears of privacy and security warred with networking with other writers. After much encouragement from a few of my writer friends, I created a Boone Brux FB page. I rationalized away my fears by creating positive goals. I would open myself up to those that wanted to be my friend. I would support other writers by reading their blogs and books. I would develop a following of my own. Never could I have imagined the nefarious traps that waited within that den of temptation and time wasting.

If you have an addictive personality, Facebook is not the best place for you to spend your time. The first inkling that I might have a problem came when I began “friending” people. I received a thrill when a total stranger accepted me as their friend. The reason for this reaction probably has its roots buried deep within my junior high years. I started with people I knew, but quickly began taking the suggestions that Facebook provided. I had every intension of being a good friend, but as the numbers grew, the task became overwhelming. Then the guilt set in. Was I giving these people false hope that I would support everything they wrote and posted? I realized it was time for me to step back and reassess my friending. I received a few friend requests, which I happily accepted, but realized I was not being heavily pursued. That created a bittersweet reaction. No requests solved my urge to over friend, but I questioned my value as a Facebook friend. Like I needed more self-doubt.

Just about the time I’d gotten my friending under control, I found the applications. Oh you dirty scoundrels, tempting me with the promise of hours of pleasure. The first step I took down that path of mindless time wasting was Happy Aquarium. Wow, cyber fish, and I got money if I kept them fed, clean, and alive. I embraced Petey the penguin, Jaws the clown fish, and Calypso the crab. I made a home for them, loved them, and decorated their tank. But wait, what is this? I can look at my friend’s tanks? BIG MISTAKE! One of my friends had fabulous squid and aquatic paraphernalia, but her fish were hungry. Oh my God, her fish are starving, and her tank was dirty. Didn’t she check? Can I feed her fish for her? No? No? But I need to help. I need to save her fish!!!!!!! I sent her an urgent message, but still the fish went unfed. Finally, she popped up on the Facebook chat, which is a whole other blog, and I pleaded with her to feed her fish. She laughed as if it was nothing, and promised me she would. Whew, now I could go back to my writing.

But wait, somebody sent me an invitation to start my own zoo. Oh, I love animals. And so, the vicious cycle began. I adopted every animal possible, bought kiosks, hired help, found lost gold, shook my money trees. I even made another Facebook page under my real name so that I could adopt animals from myself. As you can see, I was sinking into the abyss of applications. However, my downward slid was not done yet. Tikki farms appeared, Happy Fish, yes more fish, and the Fairy Garden. How many hours a day was I spending feeding my fish, adopting animals, looking for gold, and harvesting my crops? It got worse. My friend sent me free chips to play virtual slot machines, Texas Hold’em, Word Challenge, Trivia Challenge, and the worst of all…Farkle. If you’ve never played Farkle, don’t start. Hours I’ve wasted Farkling my day away.

This was a problem. Where was my manuscript? Where had the characters of my imagination gone? What day was it? When had I last eaten? Why were my kids still at home? Had I forgotten to take them to the bus? I was only moving from my computer to get more coffee and pee. When I finally shook the hypnotic hold that Facebook applications held over me, I knew I had to do something drastic. Delete, delete, delete. Gone went Word Challenge, gone went Happy Fish, and yes, bye, bye Farkle. I stood up from my chair like a phoenix rising from the ashes. I shook my legs, trying to get the feeling to return to my butt cheeks and feet. Stretching, I smiled. I had done it. I had walked through the valley of FB applications. I had stared down the throat of the time-suck monster, and I had survived. I shut off my coffeepot, showered, rinsing the sticky residue of Facebook desire from my body, and drove to the store to buy groceries. A new day had dawned. The sun kissed my face and I smiled, knowing that I was a stronger, wiser, writer having Farkled and survived.

My New New Year's Resolutions

2010-01-01T10:35:00.000-09:00

So, I’ve thought a lot about this over the past few weeks—the pros and cons of New Year’s Resolutions—and I’d pretty much talked myself out of doing any for the year. Let’s face it…most of the time they fail and I’ve had the same freakin’ resolutions for the past ump-teen years (lose weight, write more, get organized). What’s the point? I’d decided to go into 2010 just keeping in mind that I really needed to do all these things but I wasn’t going to do a “resolution” or start a new plan or suddenly jump back to Weight Watchers (cuz you know the lines are huge the first week in January).

Then, I found myself walking through the bookstore. I was just there to get a cup of tea but I was on my phone with a friend who was telling me about how stressful her Christmas had turned out to be. I couldn’t find a way to break into the conversation while I ordered a 16-oz English Breakfast tea with room for cream, so I wandered the store.

I skimmed across the new books and saw one on getting organized. I’ve bought a half a dozen of these kinds of books over the years and never make it through. Who has time to read all this stuff? I need to be organized now!! Well, this book is split out into weeks and every week you do one bit of organizing. Means I don’t have to read the whole book until I’m doing each section. I like that.

Then my wanderings continued and I found myself in health and fitness. Sigh. All the books and plans and I almost walked away. I’ve tried a bunch, I know I should work out, I know I should eat better.

But then a realization hit me…at the end of 2010, I might not be a svelte, organized, writing mogul but you know, that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try. And even if I don’t completely succeed, any sort of effort will mean improvement. I know from experience, I won’t follow a strict meal plan to lose weight but if it stops me from hitting the donut cart twice a week, that’s a good thing.

I walked out of the store with 2 books—one to be organized and one to improve my fitness/health. I’m not calling them “new year’s resolutions” (the last time I was “resolved” about anything I was in debate class) and I’m not going to begin today (a Friday morning just seems like a bad time to change your world). I might not succeed but I’ll have made an effort and that counts for something. Who knows? By this time next year, I might be able to see the top of my desk. There’s always a chance.

Happy New Year!
Tielle

And the Blatant Self-Promotion Side Note
Taking Shape is now available from Ellora’s Cave! You can read a hot, sexy excerpt at my blog.

New Year's Thoughts

2009-12-27T23:00:00.000-09:00

January is almost here, so it’s time to consider New Year’s thoughts. One of mine is that different people define the year differently. For teachers and students, fall is the start of the school year, the time for new hopes and plans, and resolutions/promises to do things better this time around. January First is a reflective pause between semesters. For fishermen, tourism staff, and other seasonal workers here in Alaska, the practical beginning of the year starts at the beginning of the season. January is the time to do some planning and dreaming, but things don’t really start until spring or summer.

For those of us who live by the seasons, Winter Solstice is important because it signals the gain of daylight. (Tielle explained it in more detail in her recent blog post.) I’m one of those people who starts counting down to Solstice early in December. That feels like a renewal or beginning to me. New Year's is a bonus.

New Year’s Eve is a good time to celebrate our hopes and wishes for ourselves and our loved ones, even if it’s not really the beginning of the year for some of us. Some years it’s felt like, whew, we made it through that rough year. Let’s hope for a better one next time. Other years it's felt more like a celebration. It is still a good time to reflect, and make plans or wishes for the new year. Most of the world seems to revolve around the calendar year now, so we might as well go with the group on this one. So I’ll take a minute as I toast my husband with the traditional champagne glass, and count my blessings and make a wish for 2010. May it be the best year ever for you and your loved ones.