A Writer's Retreat

Writing can be a lonely process, especially if you don’t count the characters in your head and on the page.   To cure the lonely writer blues, we like to tweet, get together for meetings, conferences, critique groups, and RETREATS!

Last weekend, thirteen ladies from our Carolina Romance Writers group traveled to Lake Lure, NC to be around people that don’t think you’re crazy just because you say things like, “My hero is being difficult about his internal conflict.”  We had workshops, critique groups, free writing time, and LOTS of writer talk.  I’ve heard tale of these writers that are withdrawn and introverted, but I’ve yet to meet many of them.  While some might hang back in a big group, you get them alone, one on one, and it’s a whole other story.   Every one of these ladies was eager and willing to talk about their current project, past experiences, best practices, biggest mistakes, etc. etc. etc.  I learned more invaluable lessons and bits of information in 2 days than I have in the last year!  Everything from how to pitch my book and where to track agents and queries, to what categorizes Steampunk, would a regenerative vampire be circumcised, and how can we make “loose change” a euphemism for… 

Okay, so obviously some of the conversations got derailed, but that’s part of the fun!  I found that even though I was away from home and had the luxury of sleeping in, I couldn’t.  I stayed up late, too giddy with writer talk to go to sleep. I woke up early, too excited at what the new day and surrounding creative minds might bring.

 I left motivated, armed with information, exhausted and totally invigorated.  In the last week I’ve prepared 35 pages for my first contest submission, registered for the Moonlight & Magnolia’s conference, set up Tweet Deck so I can navigate social media more effectively, worked with my design guru friend and finished a business card template, and done more edits.  If this is what a retreat does, I can’t imagine a conference or (gasp!) Nationals.  I might not sleep for days!  What about you - have you escaped with your writer posse?  A girls weekend?  Would it be selfish to do this quarterly? :)

Long Live Cody Bear

This week marks the second year I have been without my furry sidekick.  Cody Alexander, better known as Cody Bear, was a constant source of comfort, laughter and drool for twelve wonderful years.  I still occasionally think I see him at the back door or have to look twice if there is a dark colored shirt left on the floor.  I find it hard to believe I will never again find my feet pinned to the floor under his sleeping weight. He will never again nudge me against the knee under the dining room table when he wants me to share my food.  No more slobbery tennis balls will be dropped at my toes.  No more half eaten bones will be found in the corners of my house.  And, I will not wake up to find him beside me during a thunder storm.  Even as I write this blog two years later, tears are slipping down my cheek to fall with silent finality on my shirt. 

Today however, is a happy day.  Today is a day for celebration of a life that was and a life that will now live on forever in fiction.  For today, I want to share with you an excerpt of Abigail’s Secret where Cody Bear will forever fetch balls and beg for food.  I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Do you have a little furry one you’re missing today?  I would love to read your comments.

Abigail’s Secret

Charles Towne, South Carolina

1783

     “These are my cousins, Sarah and Emma Terrington.  They are…presently in my care.” Alex refrained from saying to Banyan what he truly felt about his cousins at that moment.  Instead, he looked past them and into the stone covered streets of the city he would now call home.  The buildings were all tall and thin, stacked like books on the shelf of a library.  It was a clean city when he compared it to soot covered London, where he had just come from.  The businesses that lined the streets all seemed peaceful and quiet, adorned in muted colors and topped with red tile roofs. Perhaps this would not be such a horrible fate after all. 

     “Nice to make your acquaintance Sarah and Emma,” Banyan said easily with a twinkle in his eye.

     The twins were obviously happy to be on solid ground, and in the company of someone who did not want to kill them.  They beamed up at Banyan as he began tossing their bags into the back of his wagon.  Alex noticed a large coal black dog sitting up on the front bench.  It seemed to be taking advantage of the premium views the bench offered of the action around him.  Just then, the dog hopped over into the back of the wagon, came to the side of the conveyance where Alex stood with the girls, and began sniffing them.  Sarah turned her face up to him, and he licked her from chin to eyebrow; she laughed and reached out to pet him. 

     “That’s Cody Bear,” Banyan offered as he lifted one end of a trunk and indicated for Alex to get the other. 

As Alex lifted the trunk he watched the girls giggle and fuss over the beast of a dog.  "If there is an animal within sight, Sarah will befriend it,” he shook his head and looked back at Banyan.  “I’ve never seen that breed in England, what is he?”

     “He’s a new breed.  I found him while on my travels,” he said with pride.  “He’s a Labrador Retriever.  He’d be a great hunting dog if he weren’t gun shy, the worthless fur ball.”  Banyan looked up at his dog, and scratched him behind the ears lovingly. 

     “I had a mastiff as a boy; however, when he ate most of the stores in the kitchen during the dead of night and then moved on to the drawing room furniture, my father insisted I give him away.  Never had another,” Alex finished wistfully, as he looked into the warm brown eyes of the dog regarding him as a slobbery ball was dropped at his foot.

     “Now Cody, we don’t have time to play right now,” Banyan said as picked up the slimy ball tossing it back into the wagon where it was pounced on like a jungle cat would devour its prey. 

     “Last one,” Alex said lifting the last of the trunks into the wagon.  “How far is it to Darby House?”

     “Oh, just right up the way, not far at all.  I’ll give you the grand tour as we go.”

     “I think Charles Towne is a lovely city,” Emma interjected looking up at the building tops looming above their heads on the street behind them.

     “That it is,” Banyan agreed.

     “There sure are a lot of churches,” Sarah observed gazing at the steeple tops that dotted the skyline of the port town. 

     “That there are. Charles Towne is even called The Holy City on occasion because of that very reason.”

     “Why are there so many?” Sarah asked, as she ran her hand over the black fur covered head of the hound leaning on her shoulder where it left a puddle of drool on her dress that she would never notice.  

      “I reckon that’s because nobody can agree on what they believe.  So, they just build another building down the street, and invite the friends who agree with them to sit there on Sundays instead of where they sat the Sunday before.  Nobody agrees, and we don’t have to, welcome to the New World.” He grinned and handed Sarah up into the wagon.

     “Well, they are lovely nonetheless.  I think Charles Towne will be a wonderful place to live,” Emma offered, as she joined her sister in sitting on a trunk at the back of the wagon. 

     Banyan raised the gate at the rear of the wagon and hooked it with chains to secure it before looking up at Alex, a question in his glance, “Once you get settled in, I’ll show you around some of the establishments in town if you like.”

     “If one of those establishments is a place where a gentleman can get a moment’s peace from family, and have a glass of something that numbs, I would like that,” Alex returned with a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

     “Ah, I know just the place that will suit your needs,” Banyan laughed in a great booming voice that reverberated off the pastel painted buildings of the city.  “You might not be all bad Darby, not bad at all.”  He laughed again, and jumped up onto the front bench of the wagon to set off for Darby House.

Now where did I put my diaphanous gown???

This week I told a friend of mine I’m writing a paranormal romance.  She teased me asking, “Will anyone be wearing a diaphanous gown?  I think the woman has to wear a diaphanous gown.  It’s like a rule.”

Ah, the stereotypes of romance novels.  For the record, my heroine does not don a diaphanous gown, nor will she ever.  She’s a button up blouse and pencil skirt type of girl. More to the point though, I don’t think I’ve ever read about a heroine wearing a diaphanous gown.  Even in historicals, they wouldn’t wear something so scandalous.  In the privacy of their bedroom the scenes are more likely to include a chemise and stockings.  While my friend meant it good heartedly (and in all fairness she teases everyone about everything), she did bring about an excellent blog topic: What are the rules of the romance novel?

Nowadays there’s only three rules that are different from any other line of fiction.  You should have a pairing.  Your pairing should be at the center of your story and they should have some kind of Happily Ever After.  Everything else is up for grabs, including what the heroine wears.  Even HEAs come in different forms in the modern romance novel.  In the 90s and early millennia, it seems as though every hero and heroine had to get married at the end of the book AND either have a child or be expecting.  Now you can simply have the profession of love and that’s enough.  There’s always the promise for more and often readers like to imagine the future for themselves.  In some modern romances there isn’t even a hero and heroine, there’s a hero and a hero or two heroines.

I find it amusing to hear all the stereotypes that people believe about romance novels.  I don’t get upset and I never argue with them.  I educate and quietly point out that some of Hollywood’s biggest hits could easily be considered romance stories.  Avatar?  Futuristic Sci-fi Romance.  Titanic and Pirates of the Caribbean? Historical Romance.  Sleepless in Seattle and Pretty Woman?  Contemporary Romance Novel.   Twister? Action Adventure Romance.  They are all either centered on a main pair’s relationship or they have huge romantic elements.  Romance is no longer about ripping bodices or puffy shirts that mysteriously lack buttons (although I love a good, old fashioned bodice ripper now and again).  It’s about carefully crafted characters and taut plotlines that keep you flipping the pages or watching the movie.  Oh yes, and a Happily Ever After.

So what’s your favorite romance – book, movie, or otherwise?

                                                              portrait by Jeremy Lipking

My Little Crooked House

It all began last September with the simple wiggle of a fence picket.  Snap! 

“Oops,” my next door neighbor offered with an unrepentant smile.  “I guess we have to tear the fence down now.  Darn.”

We had hated the warped and twisted gray fence that encircled our backyard ever since we had moved into our house three years earlier.  Every time we went outside the conversation would always turn to our ugly fence and what we could do to fix it.  Over these discussions of what could be, what might be, what would be nice and what we could afford, we built a lifelong friendship with our neighbors.  The fence became our joke and our gathering place for chit chat.  We leaned against it to talk about our children, our families, our work and our plans for the day.  So, that September day when the first picket was ruthlessly ripped off, (Just kidding Dave) we took great joy in tearing down the fence.  Only, when it came time to remove the last post, there was a distinct air of sadness that filled the backyard.  Nobody was ready to say goodbye to that last post, the most crooked and warped post of the entire fence.  After all, it had been the post that brought us together as friends. 

It’s my belief that all places of happiness in life can only be reached by crooked paths.  We weave through dark forests, bright meadows and narrowly avoid the occasional pit of quick sand to finally reach our goals.  And I think the same adage can be said of friendship.  Deeper bonds are forged in hardship and over twisted, gnarled wood, than over perfect fences with perfect landscaping.  So, we left the crooked post standing as a reminder of the crooked paths that have led us to this happy place of friendship. 

As I was walking past the crooked post this week watering my flowers, I couldn’t help but feel thankful.  I’m thankful for the past, for how far my backyard makeover and how far my life has come over the last year.  The forty-one bushes we planted are beginning to grow.  The bulbs we planted are beginning to sprout.  And the grass seed…well, it still just looks like dirt, but that gives us something else to discuss in the backyard this spring. 

 Celebrate your imperfect and beautiful crooked path today.  You never know where an ugly fence could lead you.  Do you have something crooked and ugly in your backyard?

There was a crooked man and he walked a crooked mile,
He found a crooked sixpence upon a crooked stile.
He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse.
And they all lived together in a little crooked house.

Happy Spring Everyone!

Cead Mile Failte!

Since yesterday was St. Patrick’s Day (Happy belated St. Patrick's Day to ye!), I feel like rambling about the Irish hero in my first novel and about the Irish in general.

It’s said that the Irish have a uniquely self deprecating and dark sense of humor.  This is true.  There’s a thread of sadness that runs through their well known love of “the craic” (pronounced “crack”).  My hero, Cian, is no exception.  If you ask someone from Ireland why they’re so known for their humor, most of them will tell you it has to do with Irish history.  Years and years of oppression followed by more years and years of economic and political strife created a people that laugh in order to simply remain sane.  One man simplified it for me: “It’s either laugh or pop yourself, so ‘tis better to laugh, yeah?”

I have to agree.  You’ll be hard pressed to meet anyone more demonstrative, talkative, and humorous than the Irish, but it’s not all “Top of the mornin’ to ya!”  As a matter of fact, the Irish don’t use that phrase at all.  They’ll get a “right laugh” off you if you assume they do. They also don’t worry about wearing green on March 17^th, lest they get pinched.  My husband’s family looked at me like I was a “feckin’ eejit” when I asked them that. 

Cian might say, “Ah, jaysus no.  Whoever heard of such carrying on?  The cheek of it!  You’ll get a dig into the face you try it 'round here.  And that’d be from the women!”

The Irish also have this wonderful way of throwing in extra words when they speak.  It not only draws out what they’re saying (so the Irish are literally using more words, but saying the same thing as we cut & dry Yanks) it also makes conversations lilt along like a pub song.  They’re little, throw away words, but they make me smile when I hear them in use:

 Sure. So. Now.

“You won’t. Sure, you can’t.”  “I told you I’d be home, sure.”  “Sure, you know how she’s always carrying on.”

“It’s whatever you want, so.” “It’s like that, so?”  “You know yourself, so.”

“Ah, now.”  “Don’t be like that, now.”  “C’mere to me now.” 

“Now, now. Sure you can’t be doing that, so.”

I keep the dialect toned down a bit in my dialogue, but even using a few Irish-isms makes Cian a joy to write.  Most Irish have the gift of the gab anyway and they sound so lovely gabbing!  I smile to myself, even as I write Cian, because the man knows he shouldn’t chat up the heroine.  He knows he ought to remain distant and cool, but he can’t!  Asking an Irishman NOT to talk or make someone laugh, not to charm or inadvertently flirt with a lady, is like asking a snake to use its strong arm. 

“Yeah, sure.  Good luck with that so!”

The Tartan

Here’s to it!

The fighting sheen of it.

The yellow, the green of it.

The white, the blue of it.

The swing, the hue of it.

The dark, the red of it.

Every thread of it!

The fair have sighed for it.

The brave have died for it.

Foemen sought for it.

Honour the name of it.

Drink to the fame of it.

The Tartan.

-Unknown

This poem hangs on the wall of a restaurant where I love to go to in the mountains of North Carolina.  Every time I eat there I think that I will someday use it at the beginning of a book about some handsome highlander that lived long ago.  However, I seem to only be dreaming in Regency England at the moment, so I thought I would share it.  I can remember eating at The Tartan Restaurant as a little girl with my family.  I come from a family that has always been very proud of its Scottish roots, so a themed restaurant at the foot of Grandfather Mountain was the logical choice when we attended the Highland Games.  It’s also not uncommon to wake up to bag pipe music at 7:30 am on Saturday mornings at my parent’s house, but that is another blog for another day.  In recent years Mr. Alpha Male and I have become regulars there mostly due to his love of country ham, my daily need for coffee and the fact that it is the only restaurant within five minutes drive of the house.  And it is the perfect place for one of my favorite pastimes, people watching.

The Tartan is one of those places where only the locals eat and most of them have blue hair.  The walls are dripping in Scottish folklore and there is plaid covering every surface lying in wait for the annual Highland Games.  Yet, filling the tables inside the restaurant on the other fifty one weekends of the year are all the simple mountain folks that stopped in for a sandwich or a cup of coffee.  Friends are hailed from across the room as neighbors and acquaintances pause to say hello.  It makes an interesting mix of foreign and local that I find irresistible.  Keep your swanky bistros and your elegant fine dining establishments, I just want to people watch from my booth at The Tartan.

“I brought you some extra country ham.  Didn’t think that servin’ they gave you in the kitchen looked like enough for ya,” Diane offered as she slid another small plate onto our table.  Mr. Alpha Male thanked her as I continued to munch on my French toast. 

“How’s that baby o’ yers?”

“Well, ya know, my chickens roost in that tree in the yard every night.”

“Is that a new shirt ya got there?”

“I hadn’t seen ya round church lately.”

Pieces of conversation swirl around me inspiring questions of who these people are and where they are going when they leave here.  What dramas have they had in their lives?  Have they loved?  Have they lost? Everyone has a back story and ultimately an impending doom, so why not weave them into fiction as I sip my coffee?  Could I ask for better inspiration than the mountain folks found in The Tartan?  I don’t think so. 

What is your favorite place to people watch?

Talking Heads

Head hopping!  It drives me crazy! It is my biggest writing and reading pet peeve.

This is not to say I’ve never been guilty of a writing sin.  I’m no grammar diva, word czar, or comma queen.  I screw up plenty.  When I wrote my first short story, even I committed the egregious error of head hopping.  However, once I learned the err of my head hopping ways; it now stands out to me like plaid on paisley.

There was much discussion lately on our Carolina Romance Writers’ yahoo loop about the practice of head hopping and if it’s ever okay.  Some had heard it’s more forgivable in today’s books and even becoming in vogue.  Others have heard it’s less forgivable.  Personally, in vogue or not, I cannot stand it.  It makes me want to bang my head against the wall/desk/palm of my hand.  I have been known to launch a book across the room in frustration (unless it’s on my Kindle of course).  I am not so passionately opposed because I’m a head hopping snob.  Quite simply, it confuses the heck out of me!

I recently ordered a book (that shall remain nameless) in which the author head hopped constantly.
Hey, at least she was consistent with her inconsistent POV.  In one scene we had three men.  We dipped into all three men’s point of view within that one scene.  When “he” thought the other “he” was suspicious looking and probably a shoe-in for the crime, I had no idea who “he” was or which “he” was probably the baddy.  The entire scene was lost on me because the head hopping negated any insight.

That’s an extreme example.  Less extreme would be an example brought up on our loop.  We are reading the heroine’s POV.  She refers (in her head) to her “beautiful, flashing blue eyes.”  Uhm … no.  Please don’t do this.  I don’t care how much you love your eyeballs; you are not going to be thinking about your flashing blue eyes locking on to Mr. Hottie’s deep brown ones.  You are going to be all about his gorgeous peepers and the soon to follow smooching.

Another example is, when in the hero’s POV, he “crossed his arms over his impressively broad and sexy chest.”  Either dude is one seriously big narcissist or … yeah, he’s pretty much just a narcissist.  The heroine would think that though.  In her POV, he’d talk to her and SHE would notice his sexy chest.  She probably wouldn’t notice her own. You see where I’m going with this?

One trick I’ve used when I’m in a particular character’s deep POV and I want her/him to comment on how they sound, look, etc., I might say something like:  “She knew how she must look. Like a (fill in the blank here).”

Something like that might work if your POV character just has to comment.

What about you?  Where do you stand on head hopping? What are your reader and writer pet peeves and sins?  Which ones have you committed?

                  (credit: Talking Heads. Oh c'mon I had to!  Psycho Killer ... qu'est ce que c'est?)