Murder She Writes

Okay, am I the only one amused by this juvenile war of words?

First of all let me say, I have never been a big proponent of Miss America, Miss Universe or any beauty contest for that matter. It just kind of gives me the willies. I had a friend many years ago who entered her baby girl in baby pageants and well, I found it—sad. Years ago my youngest son was offered a modeling gig, hubby and I discussed it and decided we didn’t want to get our family caught up in all of that. Had a neighbor who was the proverbial stage mom. Her kid was okay but he turned into (IMHO) a little snot when his face hit the screen. I detest snotty kids.

I digress. The beauty pageant thing to me is at the worst…unpleasant , I do understand its allure and I think it’s a great opportunity for women to earn scholarship money. So, with that said, when all of the rumors started flying about the possibility of Miss America being dethroned, I like many didn’t really care, but I did wonder what horrible act against humanity she had committed. Then I see her crying her eyes out next to The Donald, (Mr. Moral Majority) as he tells the world what a naughty girl she was ( oh my, she drank alcohol and she is under 21!! Fifty lashes you rogue wench!!!!!) and how he was giving her a second chance (aww what a great guy!!). Disclaimer: I do not advocate underage drinking, and I am very aware that Miss America is held to a higher standard, and that she is supposed to epitomize all that is good about our Miss Americas. (hee, hee and I must say in this regard she has succeeded, and then some).

Now, I like The Donald. He’s grown on me over the years, comb over and all. What I respect most about him is his ability to bounce back and to stay on top. He’s a smart guy. And I have to say, I enjoy his humor, his humor at not taking himself too seriously. Or so it appeared. But, I have to say the entire press conference made me a bit queasy. It had nothing to do with Miss America’s peccadilloes, it had everything to do with such a pathetic public display of, I-am-king-of-the-universe-and-you-are-a naughty-girl, I-should-spank-you-in-public, but-I-can’t-so-I’ll-humiliate-you-this-way. And it was humiliating–for them both. No bueno in Karin’s book.

Then Rosie pipes up the next day. Note: I liked Rosie before she became Rosie. I don’t care much for celebrities who use their entertainment shows to further their political views. Whether I agree with them or not. I’m not entertained by political rants. Make sense?

Anyhoo, I cringed when I heard she had trashed The Donald. My imagination ran wild with Rosieisms. What did she say to cause such an uproar? When I heard what she had to say, well, I agreed, and I agreed on such a basic level. Who is he, The Donald, to act holier than thou when he has his own closet of peccadilloes? Who made him king?

But do you know what upset me the most about all of this? The Donald’s low class verbal rebuttal blows at Rosie. All respect I had for the man evaporated. I was appalled, simply appalled by his immature attack and his threats against Rosie. Yes, yes, I know Rosie drew first blood, it is expected of her, it’s what she does, and I am very okay with that, but I just always thought The Donald had more class then the average New York gazillionaire, and would keep his mouth shut. Instead he reduced himself to a level so low I can’t bend low enough to see it. So disappointing.

And now more than a week later the nastiness is intensifying. Blah blah blah, how many more insults can they hurl at the other? Yawning, I’m no longer amused but bored.

But seriously, in its entirety, is it me or do y’all find this scenario ridiculous and sad?

One of the things I enjoy most about the holidays is having Christmas Eve dinner at my brother and sister-in-law’s house. Aside from funerals and weddings, it’s the one time of year I can bank on having my siblings, their little rug-rats, my own children, and my dad all in one place. It’s usually a noisy event, filled with laughter, too much to eat and drink, the sharing of memories, and just catching up on each other’s lives. Occasionally, my brother or sister-in-law will invite a friend or neighbor to join the hoopla, especially if he or she has no place else to go for the holidays.

This year they invited, “Marie,” a gregarious, seventy-three-year-old neighbor who I’d never met before and who immediately bowled me over—literally. The moment I walked into my brother’s house, she ran into my personal space, arms outstretched. I barely had time to size up my attacker—tight black slacks, tighter silver, glittery blouse, strawberry blond/platinum swirl bouffant that looked, and smelled, like it had been anchored with a gallon of AquaNet, and bloodshot blue eyes—before she caught me in a bear hug. We were both thrown off balance and toppled to the floor. Fortunately, onto carpet.

After helping a laughing Marie to her feet and making sure she was okay, I found myself collecting a few opinions, all in a matter of minutes. . . Marie was drunk. Marie was loud. Marie reminded me of retired bar-maid who never quite got that whole outside-of-the-bar social etiquette thing down pat. She called everyone ”Honey pot,” regardless of their gender, ran outside every couple of minutes to smoke a Virginia Slim, and downed a half-pint of I.W. Harper before I finished my first Coke. The woman knew how to leave a memorable first impression.

Now my brother and sister-in-law have always had a character or two in their pool of friends, but Marie was so out of the ordinary, even for them, I couldn’t help but ask for the rest of her story. What my brother revealed left me speechless. . .

Marie, a former registered nurse who’d specialized in pediatrics, had lost her husband and only grandson in an auto accident two months ago. Her daughter, mother of only grandson, was in a drug rehabilitation center four states away. The father of now deceased grandson was unknown. And Marie had recently been diagnosed with terminal cancer. This would probably be her last Christmas.

I was floored by all this information. Such a contrast existed between my first impression of Marie and what I now knew it felt impossible to wrap both stories around the same person.

In thinking about Marie, I considered first impressions as a whole, especially when it comes to writing. Unlike that memorable woman and her remarkable story, our writing seldom gets a second chance at a first impression. The first sentence, first paragraph, first page of a story is usually the only opportunity we have to grab an agent or editor’s attention. It doesn’t matter if intrigue, major suspense, and a colossal ending await them in the book. Time constraints and heavy workloads force editors and agents to make quick decisions based off very little information. If they can’t make it past your first paragraph without yawning, you’ve lost the game even before all the pieces are laid out on the table.

As a reader, I often use the yawn factor myself. I’ll scan the bookstore shelves for an intriguing cover or title, then, once found, I’ll check out the first paragraph of the book. If it doesn’t grab my attention and make me want to know more about the story, the book goes back on the shelf. Knowing the harshness of my book buying criteria makes me pay closer attention to what I write. If I want to be ‘tackled’ the moment I pick up a book, then I should accept nothing less in my own work.

And if I’m really lucky, and the writing gods smile down on me, I might actually come up with a story and plot twist as unique as Marie.

So when was the last time you were fooled or floored by a first impression?

Guest Blogger Alert….

The Christmas holiday is over and I’m breathing a sigh of relief. I love Christmas, but as I get older I seem to be able to balance less. Family, food, work, and the DVD player all seem to suck up my time. Don’t get me wrong I am grateful for each. Well, except the DVD player, I swear it’s a spawn of hell.

I sat back last night full of joy, pumpkin pie, and family love. Totally feeling the glow and an aching back. When I realized this is how a good book affects me (well except the aching back.) One I’ve had my fingers in. One that has made me cry for the beauty and joy it contains. I am content and sated.

As a reader I know how I want to feel at the end of a book. As a friend and a critiquer I’ve watched the authors I work with, and for, through the various parts of their process. I’ve seen the pins and needles. But do I really know the depths of their despair, self-doubt; their internal dramas? I doubt it. How can a person who hasn’t been there possibly know the depths of an author’s emotions and trials? How do you feel when you’ve finished your latest manuscript? It’s in the hands of your editor, or even just your first reader or critiquer, you have handed your baby over to the next level of your process how do you deal with it? How do you suffer the slung arrows of self-doubt, the ones that hit you in the core of your being? And that is only from you.

Then it happens, you get feed back from your critiquer, your first reader, your EDITOR. How much of that critique do you rely on? How much will you change your book when your editor comes back with possibly massive revisions? How far are you willing to go to see this book in print? I’ve often wondered this. Change the title, change the hero, up the conflict, add more romance, tone down the romance, and add more mayhem. How far will you go? Where does the line get drawn on the negotiating table of publishing?

Stephen King said he’d never let Pet Cemetery be made into a movie. I’d read that just days before the first trailers for the film were released. Discouraged and disgusted I’ve never read another Stephen King book. In fact, seeing where the ending was headed, I set the book down with three chapters to go. Until that moment King was one of my favorite authors. Others have become rote writers, each book seemingly out of a fill in the blank format – which I assume comes from the “I’m worn out, but my contract demands two books a year” dilema. Then there is myy niece, who wrote a book, but couldn’t go through the process of submission and rejection so opted to go the Publish America route. I felt let down by her and she probably by me; I wouldn’t buy the book.

So my question to you is two fold. What changes to your work are willing to make? And having watched the industry, jumped the hoops, and ran the gauntlet of hell what actions by others do you find disheartening?

Cele

I want to wish everyone a Happy Holiday, or if you’re so inclined, Merry Christmas! The rush is over and I’m taking the day off to spend with my family.

But hey, if you’re relaxing and hanging around the blogs, how would you answer this comment that I got at one of the Christmas parties this year? My husband was teling this person how many books I’ve published. Then the person turned to me and said:

“So Jen, now that you’ve done this for a while, you probably just crank out the books, huh?”

What would you say? By the way, this is one of the reasons I don’t usually talk about my work at social and family functions, LOL!

Enjoy the holiday!

Although there is no such thing as a crystal ball we can predict the future. To a point. For instance, here is a prediction: If I turn a good book in on or before my deadline my publisher will be happy. The books sells well, I will get another contract. Prediction: If I turn in a lousy book late, and it tanks there will not be another contract with that publisher.

Cause and effect, action reaction, whatever you want to call it, many things in life are in our control and therefore predictable. There are always exceptions. Who could predict getting dumped by their publisher when numbers have been good and the author reliable?

To ensure the first of the predictions comes true, it takes planning, dedication, and perseverance on my part. The plan part is simple. I look at my year ahead, what I have to commit to both personally and professionally. Write it down, see it, absorb it, work it. How many books do I have to write? How many conferences can I attend in between deadlines? How many RWA meetings can I commit to, how many contests can I judge? Can I squeeze in a vacation? When and for how long? Once I have my year business plan on paper and have sealed it with my myself, my husband and my agent, then I must dedicate myself to persevering in these tasks I have set forth.

I’m not an organized person. I waste time, precious writing time. I’m over committed on blogs, contests and conferences. But, I have an ace in the hole. I want to write and I have an incredible sense of responsibility to my publisher. It trumps everything. When I get into a pressure cooker corner, I can write myself out of it. I can set everything aside and produce. It isn’t pretty for my household but I seem to thrive in this type of atmosphere. But a steady diet of this type of lifestyle will burn me out—fast. I have come to the conclusion that I do have to pull back from loops, visiting too many blogs, and I must just say no. I have said no to MySpace. Both being a buddy and launching my own MySpace. It’s a time suck that will tip the balance of a tenuous scale. I have enough on my plate.

I have discovered something about myself this holiday season. Amidst my husband’s surgery, and (new word alert!) invalidness, a crazy book signing road trip, several local signings, numerous parties both hosted and attended, and basically having to run a busy household single-handedly during a demanding holiday season while battling a nasty flu in my house, I have not lost my mind! I have managed to put my entire house in holiday mode, read a little, write a little, though not enough, go through the galley pages of SKIN, whip up a blurb for a proposal and get an offer on it (still in the works—agent on vacation), throw a couple of parties, attend a couple of parties, Christmas shop, maintain my blogs and even give a few books away, and, more than anything, I have survived this craziest month of my life. I’m still standing. My Christmas shopping is done, the family is coming over Christmas Eve, I don’t have to cook Christmas day, hubby’s cast is history the 28th and then I am free and clear to put my household on standby while I complete JADED.

While I never would have predicted when my husband had surgery the Thursday before Thanksgiving, and he would be off his feet, literally for 6 weeks that I would be on the lucid side of sanity, I should have known I could do it. Hell, I’m a woman, and we ladies are tough. Having weathered this storm I can safely predict a bit of my future for 2007. I will write the three single titles I have contracted and the two novellas. I’ll do it in between traveling to New York for a conference, Houston for a conference and then to Dallas for a conference. I’ll do in between all of the RWA meetings I am committed to, I’ll do it in between my regular family drama and extra family drama, I’ll do it in sickness and in health. I will just do it. I can’t not do it. I’m like a shark, I have to keep moving to survive. I also predict I’ll be exhausted by the time 2008 rolls around.

So, to see my predictions through I have a few resolutions. Lose a few more pounds, improve my craft. I want to be instrumental in helping a writer realize their dream of publication. But first and foremost I resolve to keep moving forward at all costs.

How about you? What are your resolutions for 2007?

1  1

Some writers can write scenes out of order, then put all these odd scenes into some semblance of sanity and have a completed book. Some people write the ending first. Or they see a scene in the middle of the book and write that, then go back to the beginning.

Me? I write linearly. I go from Point A to Point B to Point C, etc. Or I should say, Chapter One, Two, Three, Four . . .

Two examples to share. First, in SPEAK NO EVIL I thought I saw the ending. I was getting near deadline and I didn’t want to forget it. So I wrote it out–nearly 50 pages. Then went back where I left off and wrote the “right” way. Problem was, by the time the characters got to the supposed ending, they looked at me and said, “Are you out of your mind?”

Well, um, maybe.

So I scraped that ending and had to do it all over again. I hate that.

In FEAR NO EVIL, I had a major revelation more than halfway through the book. Well, okay, more like a major panic that everything I’d written wasn’t working because a major plot point was so miserably screwed up. But a couple hours later the solution hit. Could I just start writing with the solution in mind, to go back and fix the messed up scenes later?

No. I went back to the beginning and fixed every miserable scene that needed fixing. Because I write linearly. If I don’t thread it in from the beginning, I can’t keep moving forward. It’s like when my husband sees a tilted picture on the wall. He can’t NOT walk by and straighten it.

Sometimes I’ll come up with something I’d never thought of before. For example, in THE HUNT Miranda Moore was the sole survivor of a serial killer. She’d been tortured. But I sort of glossed over a lot of it, until she was getting ready to get into the shower. Then she looked at herself in the mirror and saw her breasts. They were severely scarred. And then everything hit me. It was there in the story all along, but I had to go back and pull out those nuggets and polish them a bit. It made so much sense, but I didn’t see it at the time. Thing is, I couldn’t just jot down a note like, “insert scene about Miranda’s disfigurement” and continue writing. I had to do it right then and there.

Take revisions. I love the way my editor writes in the margins and sends me back the entire manuscript. I have her editorial letter, with the overall story problems, which I read a couple of times and internalize, but never look at while revising. It’s the margin notes that do it for me. I have the big problems already figured out in my mind.

But I CAN’T edit a scene in the middle of the book. In SEE NO EVIL, there was a problem with the love scene. I understood what the problem was, but I couldn’t just hop in and fix it. Why? Because in the revising subtle changes to character occur. If I wrote that scene out of order, I wouldn’t be holding true to the characters. And, in fact, it isn’t until I start editing–from page one–that I gradually reshape the characters and the story. What happens at the beginning truly effects what happens in the middle, in bed, at the end. To rewrite the ending (or the sex scene) then go back and “fix” the beginning, I’m forcing my characters into a mold I created.

What happened to that sex scene is that I THOUGHT I needed to write something more conventional because my editor didn’t like the less conventional scene I wrote. If I had gone that route, I would have had to scrap those 15 pages. As it turned out, I did write something a little less conventional, but it worked so much better than the original scene or what I had envisioned when I read about the scene problems. And it’s true to character.

This process actually helped when revising FEAR NO EVIL. Because I was on a very short deadline (a week for revisions) I sent chunks of the book (about 100 pages each) to my editor as I finished them. If I hopped all over the place, I would have given her the entire manuscript–on-time–but with no chance of her reading the revisions.

Linear writing doesn’t mean necessarily a simple or linear story. It’s simply the process of getting the story out. And by no means is it the right way or the only way. It’s the right way for me. I know successful published authors who write the sex scene first, or the ending, or a pivotal turning point. I have a friend who writes completed out of order then puts the book together when she thinks she has all the scenes done.

My husband, who writes speeches and op-eds, will outline first–a word or phrase for each paragraph or section. Then he starts to flesh them out. He’ll start at the beginning, then go to the end to make sure they match, then fill in points in between. He works and reworks and moves things around. You might think, oh, this is because it’s an op-ed. But I used to write them, too, and I still wrote from beginning to end.

What about you? How do you write?

BTW, I have a post up today on Romancing the Blog called Tune In or Tune Out about television viewing.

Okay, I’ll admit it, I’m NOT in the Christmas spirit. Instead of grinching about it, though, (It was either that or blog about writing deadlines during the holidays, which can be likened to pulling teeth without the aid of novocaine) I thought I’d share a little Cajun jingle with ya….

On de first day of Christmas, my true love he gave to me,
A crawfish in a fig tree.

On de second day of Christmas, my true love he gave to me,
Two voodoo dolls
And a crawfish in a fig tree.

On de t’ird day of Christmas, my true love he gave to me,
T’ree stuffed shrimp
Two voodoo dolls
And a crawfish in a fig tree.

On de fo’rt’ day of Christmas, my true love he gave to me,
Four pousse café
T’ree stuffed shrimp
Two voodoo dolls
And a crawfish in a fig tree

On de fi’t’ day of Christmas, my true love he gave to me,
Five boudin balls
Four pousse café
T’ree stuffed shrimp
Two voodoo dolls
And a crawfish in a fig tree

On de sixth day of Christmas, my true love he gave to me,
Six cypress knees
Five boudin balls
Four pousse cafe
T’ree stuffed shrimp
Two voodoo dolls
And a crawfish in a fig tree

On de sevent’ day of Christmas, my true love he gave to me,
Seven fleur de lis,
Six cypress knees
Five boudin balls
Four pousse café
T’ree stuffed shrimp
Two voodoo dolls
And a crawfish in a fig tree.

On de eight’ day of Christmas, my true love he gave to me,
Eight crabs a boilin’
Seven fleur de lis
Six cypress knees
Five boudin balls
Four pousse café
T’ree stuffed shrimp
Two voodoo dolls
And a crawfish in a fig tree.

On de nint’ day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
Nine oysters stewin’
Eight crabs a boilin’
Seven fleur de lis
Six cypress knees
Five boudin balls
Four pousse café
T’ree stuffed shrimp
Two voodoo dolls
And a crawfish in a fig tree

On de tent’ day of Christmas, my true love he gave to me,
Ten pirogue paddles
Nine oysters stewin’
Eight crabs a boilin’
Seven fleur de lis
Six cypress knees
Five boudin balls
Four pousse café
T’ree stuffed shrimp
Two voodoo dolls
And a crawfish in a fig tree

On de elevent’ day of Christmas, my true love he gave to me,
Eleven duck decoys
Ten pirogue paddles
Nine oysters stewin’
Eight crabs a boilin’
Seven fleur de lis
Six cypress knees
Five boudin balls
Four pousse café
T’ree stuffed shrimp
Two voodoo dolls
And a crawfish in a fig tree.

On de twelf’ day of Christmas, my true love he gave to me,
Twelve shotgun shells
Eleven duck decoys
And all dat ot’er damn stuff dat don’t make a lick a’sense! Me, I t’ink I’m gone get me another damn boyfriend!

Happy holidays, everyone!

Today, in between eating bonbons and dictating my latest tome to my loyal assistant/secretary/chauffeur/mausseuse, I somehow locked my keys in my car, while it was running, and discovered that the spare key was missing.

Can you guess which part of the above paragraph is true? Yup, you guessed it. There is no damn assistant/secretary/chauffeur/masseuse, and although I could seriously USE some bon bons right about now, there wasn’t any of those, either.

I was in a hurry, because I had worked all day at the dance store (it’s quiet there, so I have quite a bit of time to write without the distraction of phones, emails, cleaning, certain GAMES I SHOULD NOT BE PLAYING, etc., So I often write), and then hurried home to get MY daughter and our two carpool friends, and get them to dance at six. So I left the car running, but just ran inside for one minute to ask my husband about the death of one of his business acquaintances, who had passed away the day before. Dancing Daughter hurried out to get in the car, and somehow (she still claims she has NO idea how), she managed the lock the car. Now, this would not be a problem, considering she is twelve, and has long since managed unlocking a car from the INSIDE. But she was not inside. She was outside. If anyone can figure out how this happens, please let me know.

This, of course, should not be a problem, since there is a spare key. Not only is there a spare key, but there is a totally useless KEY that will do nothing that unlock the door, should you, say, LOCK YOUR KEYS INSIDE IT WHILE IT IS RUNNING.

Seems Mr. Collins decided to throw THAT key away, since we had two keys that worked perfectly well–only one was missing. Mr. Collins had been very insistent that we take the EXTRA USEFUL key out with us in the morning, before we leave, and warm the car up, locking the door behind us so no one steals the car. Now, I’m telling you, this happened here in my little town just a month or so ago, so I do understand the sense of this. However, SOMEHOW (read oldest daughter, who likes to start the car), took the EXTRA key out to unlock it, stuck it on the divider console, and forget to take it back in the house.

We searched high and low, but there was no key. She swore she had left it in the car. But no key.

All of this was annoying, and Mr. Collins was highly irritated, but then it all hit the fan tonight, let me tell you. There is just nothing like a car sitting in a driveway, running, locked up tight.

We searched harder for the key. I had a meltdown. Mr. Collins had an anger-down. And then we realized we had to call a locksmith. So I found a number and called, and the nice man promised to come right over. In the meantime, the other mom in the car pool kindly came and got my daughter and took her to dance.

And while Mr. Collins was looking for the key in my oldest daughter’s room, he found it was a HUGE disaster, so he decided to cut short her trip to the mall with friends, and he tried to maneuver his truck, which was parked in FRONT of my car which was obviously running but not moving. In doing so, he managed to knock out a pretty big chunk of our cement entryway. I’m sure that just added to his joy of the evening.

But he got out, by God.

And so did I, after the locksmith arrived. I searched the car, and found the extra key which was tucked up inside the undercarriage of the front seat. And then I decided I was going to run away and never come back. EVER.

After all, if I didn’t have car pools, and children to chauffeur around, and houses to clean, and shopping to do… I would NEVER EVER EVER be pressed for a deadline, right? Or finding it hard to find to time to concentrate on revisions for say, TWO DIFFERENT BOOKS, along with new ideas for two more books. Oh no, that would NOT happen, right?

But I suppose that without these types of things, my Jenny books would not be funny, and real, and without traumas and trials, and the harrowing events of daily life, how would I make my dialogue realistic? How would I make a character empathetic?

A harried mother in a grocery store turns around to pick up a cereal box and when she turns back, her toddler is missing. Most of the time, it turns out okay… But what about when it doesn’t? How do you write this, if you haven’t felt that fear, that panic, of a missing child? Even if it’s only for two minutes?

Right now, my character in my next St. Martin’s book is forced to relive a very bad relationship choice she made–mostly because he’s come back to haunt her. And that happens. We have all made bad choices. We have all had to regret them. Some of us, of course, have made worse choices than others. My heroine was lured in by someone who was not what he seemed, spurred on by a lifetime of being fed something as the ONLY TRUE THING. I have some experience with that, myself. And I guess it makes my writing real. I’ve felt that anger, and hurt, and sometimes despair as you realize that this one, this tough one, is going to take a damn long time to go away.

Tonight, after the car was finally opened, and I’d found the extra key, I had to run back into the house to turn off the lights, because Mr. Collins was already super, duper irritated at me, and as I did I thought about the running car… Now running unlocked. What if someone chose that moment, to just get in it and drive away? The whole REASON I was in this damned mess in the first place? I tore through the house at lightning speed, locked the door (because last Christmas someone broke into our house and trashed our Christmas tree and ornaments), exited out and and jumped into the car, and collapsed into a lump and sobbed. It was five minutes before I was able to drive.

Not every day is like this. But the next time I write a scene that is full of despair, you can bet I will draw on this. Or maybe I’ll be laughing about it, using it with Jenny T. Partridge and her accounts. Maybe. If I can laugh about it by then.