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?)

Lost in the Query Letter Woods

Do I have any idea what I’m doing?  No.  Do any of us?  No.  Here is my story.  Be entertained by my blunders and learn from my mistakes.

I finally wrote “The End” on my first manuscript at the beginning of January.  After jumping up and down for several days, toasting with my blog partner, and printing my book—just to look at it and smile, I had no idea what to do next.  As I began the editing process, I bought two books on Amazon.com.  One book was a listing of literary agents and the other was a “how to” book on writing query letters.  I was proud of my resourcefulness.  Why did everyone stress over this process when there was a book conveniently for sale out there that would hold my hand, and walk me through the writing of this dreaded letter? 

I read.  I highlighted.  I dog-eared pages.  Then I wrote a two page long letter proclaiming in the first paragraph my need of a literary agent and why the reader of my letter would be the agent for me.  Keep in mind I sucked up in a manner that was still vague enough to be a form letter or “specifically unspecific” as I like to say.  I then outlined the entire book—no need to look any further to discover more about this story, it was all right there.  How easy I was making some literary agent’s job!  Then I closed with my list of writer credentials which included my college degree in an unrelated field, my love of books, and my travels to places not even in my book.   My query letter was written just as the wonder book told me to write it.  Perfect!  

And then I sent it to a few literary agents.  I was sure this was it.  This was all it would take to get “The call.”  That was when I started getting the form rejection letters.  After the forth rejection that, (Thank you Jessica Faust at Bookends Literary Agency) said I didn’t have enough hook, I started to do some research.  I began to follow every literary agent’s blog that exists or once existed.  I listened to their complaints.  I read their critiques.  I learned.

Here is what I found:  I was so wrong; it was embarrassing.  A query letter should be 1 page or less, (250 words.)  It should start with the synopsis, which should tell what the story is about without revealing the ending.  If you can’t hear the engaging voice of the movie trailer guy in your head as you read it, it needs more hook.  Use phrases like: she had a choice to make…or he had to decide between…  The essence of your writing should shine though the synopsis of your book without telling a series of events.  Take out the agent kiss up routine.  Hello, they know why you need an agent!  That’s what they do for a living.  And if you, like me, have no experience, don’t try and make some up.  Let your story speak for itself.  To summarize, start with your synopsis, then tell the title, word count and genre, thank them and that is all you need.  Cut everything else!

Now, here I sit about to send out the first round of revised query letters to the literary world.  I hope the Query Shark will be proud, and she and her friends will not rip me limb from limb.  I’ll let you know what happens this time…

Am I the only one who has been lost in the query letter woods?

Anniversary Woes

 “It should be hot, smooth skin,” Mr. Alpha Male stated as he read further into the scene we were editing.   “There needs to be a comma after thigh.  …her right thigh, as his tongue traced…”

You would think that having a sex scene that you wrote read back to you in slow motion by your significant other would be a romantic way to spend your anniversary.  But, you would be wrong. 

Yesterday was my 15 year anniversary with Mr. Alpha Male.  There was a time, 10 years ago, even 5 years ago; when I would have wanted an exotic vacation, jewelry, or a fancy night out on the town to celebrate such an occasion.  However, with our little boy asleep upstairs, and the remnants of his toys strewn across our living room floor, there we sat together on the sofa, diagramming every sentence of a spicy scene I wrote for A Matter of Time.  We laughed.  I turned an unseemly shade of red.  Was it erotic or even sweet, the way we spent our anniversary evening? No, unless you consider the willingness to correct grammar all night sweet- which fortunately I do.  Then it occurred to me, as I cringed at my use of the word turgid, real life and fictional life, are exactly opposite concepts to one another. 

In fictional life, all heroes smell nice even after a day of riding horses.  They never have bad breath, gas, or any annoying habits.  The heroines never have to use the bathroom at inconvenient times; and they are never grouchy in the mornings.  The timing of changes in life like: career moves, marriage, and children, always come together perfectly to create a happily ever after.  There is always plenty of money for ball gowns and London Townhouses.  The bad guy gets what he deserves in the end, while the good guy reaps the rewards.   And I’m certain that they celebrate all anniversaries in extreme style.

And then there is real life.  Bills, stress, stinky feet, crying babies, colds, dirty dishes, and work all seem to punctuate our daily routines, leaving no room for the sweeping romances I like to read and write about.  However, I wouldn’t have it any other way.  It was a perfectly un-perfect way to spend my anniversary with Mr. Alpha Male.

I am thankful for the gritty, real life that I’m surrounded in everyday, even if I would rather be wearing a ball gown while I write this.  How real is your real life?  Would you rather be wearing a ball gown?

Ironing out the Pantser

I wonder; are Pantsers the only writers that enjoy editing?

 My Plotter co-blogger is editing her manuscript and from the sound of it, there’s a lot of emphasis on the labor part of "labor of love."  My other Plotter friends bemoan the process of editing on Facebook and Twitter.  I’m pretty sure it’s a global consensus that by round 4 or more, everyone is sick of even their greatest manuscript, but right now I LOVE editing my book.

I love it in a way I think only a Pantser can.  The rough draft of a Panster can take off into uncharted territory.  Heck, my book only had a basic map, so most of it was uncharted.  I attended a workshop with Linnea Sinclair a few months ago and I clung to a key piece of her wisdom:  Give yourself permission to write a [crappy] first draft.  She said, especially for a Pantser, the first draft can be a flow of creativity. Follow the muse and don’t worry about perfection.  The second draft is for perfecting.

This way of writing totally works for me.

It’s only now, as I work on my second draft, that so many pieces of Murphy’s Law are coming together.  I already know my characters, backward and forward, and I know how it ends!  Now I can have fun with it.  I feel a lot like a director.  “Okay, people!  So, in this scene, you’re going to want to be more aggressive than in take one.  You’re feeling a lot of attraction here because in the next chapter you finally kiss her.  And you have to flirt a little more too honey; so he knows you’re into it.  Got it? Good. Aaaaaaaand Action!”

I can also take the time to fill in more details about a scene; how does it feel and sound? I’m the worlds worst for skipping that in rough draft.  I know how it’s supposed to feel, but at the time, the characters are more important.  I’ll skimp on the details until the second draft.  I love building a scene, but when I first write it, description can bog me down.

Another reason I love second draft edits is because I will finally let someone read it.  Two someones actually.  Writing the first draft is a very lonely experience.  Now, as I finish editing a few chapters, I send them to my beta readers.  Knowing I have someone holding me accountable and anxiously awaiting the next chapter keeps me motivated.  I admit it; this is my favorite part of writing.  If there comes a time though, when I need to edit it again and again … and again and again for an agent or editor, ask me how excited I am about editing.  Of course, I can only hope I’m that lucky.

What about you?  Do you love or loathe the editing process? When does it make you want to scream?