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?