[This is not a political blog. I promise.]

The summer I was twelve, I watched Richard Nixon resign from office. That’s a strange thing for a twelve-year-old girl to do during a summer. I’m not sure I particularly knew who Richard Nixon was before those long hot months, but there I was, planted in front of a big wooden box encasing a color TV (we got three channels, though the NBC affiliate was kinda fuzzy reception-wise). And there was this thing called “Watergate” which, I am ashamed to say, I thought was some sort of lake for the longest time, until I realized it was a hotel, and then I couldn’t quite fathom why it was such a big deal that people from one group were at the hotel of people from another group. Didn’t people go visit each other in hotels?

(Yes, I was a naive kid.)

We’d just moved into the brand new house my mom and dad had worked so hard to buy and it had everything spanky and shiny and perfect… and carpet… thick, comfortable carpet, all in front of a color TV. And it was out in the country. Way out. Miles out. Light years away from the known universe. I had a grand total of one sibling, a younger brother whose sole purpose in life was to drive me batshit by drumming on my head, so I pretty much exhiled him from my presence. There were no girls anywhere near my age anywhere close by and my parents worked long hours. They were also fond of this thing called “gardening” which, in translation into teenager language meant “dirty grubby work so I could eat vegetables, yeah, right, like that was gonna happen.” I, on the other hand, was fond of this thing called “air conditioning” and at the wise age of twelve, had perfected the snail’s pace that any teenager would be proud to copy today. You could set a glacial clock by my movements. I spent a lot of time in that living room.

I remember the moment when I was sitting cross-legged on the floor, just a few feet in front of the screen and realized, oh. This is bad. I mean, I had known there was a lot of fuss over something and, having not really paid attention in the beginning of the summer as to why, was trying to make sense of the long, protracted discussions. I didn’t understand the soap operas, either, but this, I grasped, was real and historic and I knew, bone deep, that it was important. And then I caught on: people broke in to eavesdrop or spy on other people. And the President might’ve known and authorized it. The President.

I can’t adequately explain to you what that meant to me; it was like finding out that ice cream might be bad for you (yeah, that was a depressing discovery), or that boys might lie and say they loved you when they didn’t (or didn’t love you when they did, which was, let’s just have this for the record, entirely fucked up and confusing, thank you ninth grade), or that someone could look you straight in the eye and still steal your money, except all rolled into one.

That was the summer that shaped me. That twelve-year-old naive girl became a cynic. I also read a lot, and in the worlds I read about, there were often happy endings; it’s probably the only thing that kept me from being a complete nihilist and gave me hope. And here I am today, a hopeful cynic, one whose hope has been mangled enough times over the years to now look a lot more like something that should be in the recycle scrap heap. Still, the hope endures that somewhere, some time, the good guys will win.

Watershed moments. Watergate was that for me. I went on to do a senior thesis about it and I became disenfranchised and certain my vote meant nothing. It would take another decade after that before I’d set foot in the polls.

There are a lot of watershed moments in our recent history, if by recent, we go on the dawn-of-mankind scale. Just the last fifty years has seen such radical changes–far faster and far more than the previous fifty. The last five years, if you include technology, probably doubled or tripled the watershed moments from the decade before it. Just think about where the internet, for example, was five years ago, vs. now. Personal computers. Politics.

This is the problem facing writers of contemporary fiction. The ‘now’ we’re setting our stories in? Will change by the time the book is published. It will change radically, in some cases. I remember reading a favorite author’s backlist and there was a moment when the FBI agent had to go find a pay phone to call into HQ and it was almost as if the writer had started speaking Martian. Then I (having definitely been around before the advent of the cell phone) (I know, ancient, shut up)… remembered all of those times I got into trouble because I wasn’t where I was supposed to be and had not tried to find a pay phone to call my parents. (First one of you who asks, “What’s a pay phone?” gets smacked.) That book was definitely set in the “then.” It was no longer contemporary, and I had to mentally cut it some slack, because it’s not like the author–any author, any of us–can write a non-sf/f type of book set in the ‘now’ and make it so generic that it won’t ever be dated.

But we don’t want to never reference anything cultural or current, because then we’re too bland. Unmemorable.

Characters have to be born in a certain time-frame. Give or take a few years, and if it’s a series character, we might need to anticipate that the “now” of the character will be progressing over the years, maybe faster than the character is actually aging, and keep the cultural references very general (in a national sense) or so personal as to be rendered a watershed moment for that person, but not something that will “date” it in the natural progression of culture.

Tuesday night changed history. No matter who you voted for, history was going to be changed.

There are moments in our characters lives which affected them. Created who they were. They are of a certain culture, because we are of a culture, and if you’re writing contemporary, do you reflect it? Or do you write more progressively than what’s actually happening around you?

[For example, long before there was a black American President, there have been fictional black American Presidents on TV and in film--possibly books, but I can't remember any specifically.]

It’s a conundrum. Do you risk tossing people out of the story because you’re writing about something that hasn’t yet happened as if it has (as in my above example), hoping that culture will follow someday and you’ll seem timely? Do you mention specific technology (cell phone, computer), knowing that you’ll be dated in five years? Do you notice these things when you read? If it’s dated, does it bother you? Matter at all?

What do you think?

Since we have a wise “no politics rule” here at MSW, I thought I’d use my (Election Day — go vote!) blog to launch a little series-ette that will appear on my posts over the next few weeks and months. I’m calling it “Manuscript Milestones” because 1) I love alliteration (maybe much more than I should) and 2) I want to take a fresh look at one of our favorite topics: the writing process, and consider it from the angle of each little stepping stone we cross from conception to completion. I think the writers will recognize their own significant moments, and readers might enjoy knowing how this writer, and others, view each “step” (or stumble) along the way.

Let’s start with that toe-curling, hair-raising, gasp-inducing moment we all live to experience. You know, that singular sensation of shock and awe, when the light bulb doesn’t just switch on, but a klieg rains down a blinding beam of beauty. An idea is conceived! Now, I’m not talking about any old throw away idea, or one that simply whispers a story possibility in your ear. No, I’m talking about a killer idea. The kind that you know instantly is a whole book, done but for the writing. A tasty, sink-your-teeth-in and instantly see the beginning, middle, end and the conflict kind of idea. Aren’t they the best? Doesn’t that moment rival some other memorable moments of conception?

But how does this glorious conception happen? I mean, if we knew where to get an idea, we’d go to that place a whole lot, wouldn’t we? Let’s just get this one answered once and for all: we writers don’t know where we get our ideas. They just show up, like gifts from heaven, kind of like a surprise twenty dollar bill in the pocket of a pair of jeans you haven’t put on for six months. When asked that dreaded question — “Where do you get your ideas?” — we have numerous smart aleck responses ready: “From the idea bank. I’m overdrawn.” “The idea fairy.” “I don’t know, but I hope to hell they keep coming.”

But the truth is, something sparks every idea. I can look at my wall of twenty-two book covers and remember the moment that each story idea was conceived. Every book I’ve written is the result of some outside stimulus that generated at least the foundation, if not the whole premise.

Like the time I was driving to Orlando and heard an interview with Quentin Tarantino on the radio. “You can do anything on the internet,” Quentin the Uber-Movie Director said. “Hell, you can sign up to get yourself kidnapped just for the thrill of it.” I almost wrecked the idea hit me so hard. What about a web site that arranges kidnappings for adventurous, thrill-seeking ladies and offers rescues by hot, sexy guys? Then someone gets killed during the game, and the only way to stop the next one is for one relentless reporter to sign up and track down her friend’s killer?! TAKE ME TONIGHT took off in my head before I sped through the next toll booth.

That’s not the only book hatched behind the wheel. Several years ago I was pulling into the school car line to pick up my kids and saw a billboard on the beach highway, a very simple sign of black letters on yellow background. “Lady in blue — I can’t forget you. We met at the South Hampton Downs apartment complex. Meet me there on Wednesday night.” Oh, heart gush! How romantic is that? He bought a billboard as a personal ad! Two days later, the message changed to another Lady in Blue personal, referencing their next meeting in the lobby of the apartment complex. And then the third one.

Oh. Duh. That’s right, it took three ads until this blonde (and a former advertising executive, so there really is no excuse) figured out this was a very clever ad campaign for South Hampton Downs apartment complex. But along came an instant story idea for the Silhouette Desire line, a manuscript titled LADY IN BLUE, which became LIKE A HURRICANE, my first Rita-nominated book.

KILLER CURVES was conceived while watching the Indy 500 (just to be nice to my husband, I had no interest in racing then), when I discovered that some of those drivers are smokin’ hot. A few years later, my manicurist told me about her secret online romance with a high school sweetheart. I immediately wondered “Is e-dultery really a-dultery?” and the whole plot of HIT REPLY unfolded in my head before the hot pink polish was dry. And the memory of one crazy, lusty night in a fraternity house in college inspired a reunion romance I titled…you know, I don’t need to reveal everything, do I?

(All right, CONTEST ALERT: Guess that book correctly and I’ll send you an autographed copy of any one of my backlist. One person is excluded. You know who you are.)

The fact is, ideas are everywhere. They come from experience, friends, the media, and listening to the couple at the next table in the restaurant. I’m loathe to toss The New York Times or USA Today into the recycle bin before I’ve read them cover to cover because I know that somewhere in those pages, there’s a germ of an idea just waiting to infiltrate my brain. Channel surfing is yet another source of ideas for me. A Discovery Channel documentary on the Mayan mystery of 2012 gave me the premise of FIRST YOU RUN, and a “What Not To Wear” marathon sparked the makeover story, HIS STYLE OF SEDUCTION. (And, of course, my undying respect for the right jacket and an A-line skirt.)

The moment a book is conceived is a very happy one, indeed. But once the tendril curls around your imagination and tugs, once the eye-widening moment has passed, once we’ve shared it with a friend or agent or editor, then the real work starts — how to fan a flicker into a flame. I’ll save that for next time, when I talk about the next Manuscript Milestone…creating the characters. (Hooray — more alliteration.)

Until then, tell me about your best moments of conception… but let’s stick with books, okay? How did you (or your favorite writer) conceive an idea? Do you remember that magic moment? Please share!

I have to say it: I hate daylight savings, even when I gain an hour. It’s only six o’clock in the evening and I feel like it’s nine. I want to take a nap. Until morning.

But I’m not going to blog about hours, I’m going to blog about years. This year in particular. It’s November after all, which means 2008 is almost over. Can you believe it? I can’t. I also can’t believe how much I wish it were already 2009. That’s the bane of authors, I think — half the time, we’re living a year ahead. I’ve spent the last couple of months going over covers, blurbs, copy edits, etc. for books that won’t see a bookstore shelf until well into next year.

So now that we’re approaching the end of 2008 (the holidays will make the next two months fly by even faster…) I’ve been thinking about the goals I set for myself back in January, and whether I’ve met them or not.

1. Slow down. Quit living for next year and enjoy this one — clearly I’m not quite there yet, but I put the wheels in motion!
2. Call my friends, instead of e-mail and IM — yes! And I’m so glad that I did, because I’m much closer to them now than I was at the start of the year.
3. Lose some weight — I’ve lost ten pounds since the RWA conference in July, but I’m pretty sure I gained that much since January so I’m not ahead yet. However, I still have a couple more months to go. I can still do it!
4. Get some new author photos taken — done! Wish I’d have lost that weight first, but going back for thinner pictures is keeping me motivated.
5. Give every book I write this year detailed, intense, unhurried attention — yep! Made me late, but I did it.

So what about you? Did you make some goals/resolutions to meet this year? Did you meet them? Are you still working on them? Have you started thinking about what you want to accomplish next year? (keep that in mind, I’ll be asking about that shortly!)

And go vote tomorrow, if you haven’t already done so! Your voice counts and it’s important.

Read of the Week: Have Yourself a Naughty Little Santa
Song of the Week: still digging on Love Remains the Same