Here’s one of my favorite posts of the year . . . well, last year. I wrote this at the end of 2008, but I’m posting it again because it’s relevant to publishing today and me specifically.
Today is the last day of 2009. My career has been arguably successful. I can support my family with my writing, but I’m not at the point where I feel any sense of job security. That I’m writing something different from my first twelve books is thrilling–it’s exactly what I want to write. But it’s also scary–what if my readers don’t follow me? What if new readers don’t find me? I would have been so much easier to continue down the same path I was on . . .
But authors can get burned out if they don’t love what they are writing and I was on the verge of burn out with the last romantic thriller I wrote. I don’t want to lose the love I have for romantic suspense, so taking a step aside and writing the supernatural thriller that has been in my mind and heart for six years was truly a blessing; that I was contracted to write these books was an important and much-needed bonus.
Tomorrow I’m launching my new website. You can check out the front page here, which I believe invokes the feeling of my story. I love my cover (really, really love my cover) but at the same time am nervous because the book is being marketed as paranormal romance . . . yet the romance is secondary to the overall story. Important? Yes. But it’s a multi-book romance arc, not an HEA in the first book.
Being a Libra (the scales) I go back and forth on this daily. I’m writing what I want to write and that makes me happy; yet in writing what I want am I shooting myself in the foot because it’s not what’s expected of me and/or of the cover on my work and/or the genre itself?
RT Book Reviews reviewed ORIGINAL SIN as “Urban Fantasy” which isn’t 100% accurate, but is more accurate than paranormal romance. What I’m writing is not definable by a popular label. I don’t say this because I’m special or advanced or supersmart–in fact, I think I’m kind of an idiot because I didn’t craft the series into an easily definable genre. On the one hand, I tell myself, “There’s nothing quite like this out there.” On the other hand, I tell myself, “There’s no market for this story” largely because it’s different. But again, it’s not original because there is nothing new under the sun. It’s classic supernatural, where good is good (sort of) and bad is bad (very). The review at least alleviated some of my fears that my readers wouldn’t come with me:
“Suspense maven Brennan takes a decidedly supernatural turn with her new demon fighter series. Blatant evil takes corporeal form in this Seven Deadly Sins series launch. Brennan’s tormented protagonists struggle with doubt and incomplete knowledge of the hazards they face. Her style of suspense readily adapts to the UF genre, giving it a darkly powerful edge. It’s shiver inducing!”
So . . . from last year, here’s my “Redux” blog. And to launch my release of ORIGINAL SIN of 1.26, I’m giving away three copies of the prequel, WHAT YOU CAN’T SEE, an anthology that I proudly share with Roxanne St. Claire and Karin Tabke who both wrote AMAZING stories that I brag about constantly. Just comment . . . and hopefully win!
GENRE BLENDING
A couple years ago, NYT bestseller James Rollins spoke to my local RWA chapter on blending genres. His presentation was fantastic–not only is Jim a great writer, but he’s also a fun and informed speaker.
He suggested that one way to break out, or to write that something “fresh and different” that editors say they want is to take an element from another genre and blend it with the “rules” of an established genre. JD Robb’s books are a perfect example of a blended genre–romantic suspense novels set in the future. They’re truly three genres–mysteries, romance, and light science fiction.
Romantic suspense has become it’s own distinct genre. There are those of us who write romantic suspense that’s heavy on the romance, such as the incomparable Roxanne St. Claire. There are those of us who write romantic suspense that’s heavy on the suspense, such as me. And our own Heather Graham has successfully incorporated paranormal elements such as ghosts into her romantic suspense novels–she helped forge the trail, as Heather has blended paranormal elements into her stories before that genre was so hot.
In fact, genre blending is nothing new–established authors have been doing it for years. In the 60s and 70s, gothic romances led the way to the modern romantic suspense novels. Romance writers who tended to write sexier than their peers became the new erotic romance writers–and there are sexy paranormals, suspense, and historicals, another branch off the tree. With the explosion of urban fantasy–which may or may not have strong paranormal and/or suspense elements; the successful science fiction romances of Linnea Sinclair; the increase in romantic mystery series (or, rather, mysteries with a nice dose of romance), our imagination is truly the limit in what we can create and blend together to make something new, different, and exciting.
When you look at some of the biggest authors of our time, they are not considered “genre” at all, even if they are shelved in an established genre. For example, Stephen King and Dean Koontz may be identified as “horror” or “suspense” but both have gone beyond genre to write stories that appeal to a large cross section of the public, largely because they incorporate ALL genre elements successfully. Stephen King’s books often deal with the supernatural or paranormal, while almost always having a relationship story (that may or may not be a romance.)
I think this is all good–it gives our imaginations more room to roam. But there’s a pitfall for up-and-coming authors, including myself: how do we market our books? Specifically, how do we create covers that appeal to cross-genre readers?
You can put Nora Roberts or Stephen King in white letters on a black cover and sell books. Their name is their genre, in a sense–they are a brand in and of themselves. They tend to have more “generic” covers without a lot of gimmicks. HIGH NOON, for example, is a simple cover that evokes a mood, but it’s Nora Roberts’ name that has you buying the book. While I’m sure bad covers for even the most popular authors can affect sales, bad covers–or the wrong covers–can negatively impact a growing author’s career.
When you write romance, you have parameters for your covers. Harlequin covers have certain guidelines and are designed to meet their reader expectations. Avon Historical Romances have certain guidelines to meet their reader expectations. When you write thrillers, there’s certain elements that tend to recur, but many of the covers either have a strong setting or image that directly relates to the story (such as James Rollins and Steve Berry) while others have a more generic or art look like Lee Child. Then there’s the running man, or other elements of speed and chase incorporated into the cover that gives the reader a sense for the type of story they are getting.
But when you write romantic thrillers, what do you focus on? The romance? The thrill? Both? To what degree?
I’m one who believes that the cover should reflect the tone of the story. More romance in the story, a more “romance focused” cover; more suspense in the story, a more “suspense focused” cover. But finding that balance that’s going to appeal to the readers who would enjoy that type of story is not easy, yet it’s probably one of the most important things for a book’s success–or failure–after the writing itself.
I recently bought a book solely for the cover. David Hewson’s THE GARDEN OF EVIL. (Great title, too!) But I was looking at covers that evoked a mood, specifically for my upcoming supernatural thriller series, and this one jumped out at me. It’s not that this cover would fit my story, but it gave me the right feeling.
Genre blending is no longer new and different, but because of the endless permutations of the genres, it will continue to grow and thrive. Yet for those of us who are trying to establish our careers, who mix it up with the genres primarily because that’s where our voice and interest takes us, finding the right covers is not always easy. And until we get to the point where our name alone puts us at #1 on the NYT list, covers will always be important.
What do you think of genre blending? Do you prefer your mysteries to be mysteries and your romances to be romances and your science fiction to be science fiction . . . or do you like mixing and matching?
Again, comment for a chance to win one of three copies of WHAT YOU CAN’T SEE!!!
A Reminder: During the holidays, Murder She Writes will be bringing you our favorite blogs from the past. Then on Monday, January 4th, 2010, we’ll begin a new year with new blogs! This was one of my first blogs and remains one of my favorites. As an update, Hannah and Anthony have celebrated their one year anniversary, are living out their happily ever after in a dollhouse of a condo in Savannah, Georgia and have adopted a rescue dog named Scarlett.
Sometimes, I think I write romance because that’s what I love to read. Sometimes, I think I write romance because I’m in love with love and this is my way of falling into it over and over and over again. Sometimes, I don’t even think about why I write romance, the way I don’t think about breathing. Because I just do.
And then something happens to make me remember why. This past weekend, I went to a wedding. A wonderful place to renew one’s firm belief in Happily Ever Afters, right? The perfect setting to clasp your hands, blink your tears, and say “Ahhhh. This makes me feel so good.” The ideal atmosphere to soak up the hope for the future and the joy of lifelong commitment.
And while all of that was palpable in the air in a small north Florida town where my whole family and a few hundred others gathered to celebrate the marriage of Captain Anthony Roffino and Miss Hannah Tedder, it was not the “I do” or the first dance or the best man’s toast that made me remember why I write romance.
It was another moment I experienced that day.
Like most people, I usually turn to the back of the church when “that” music starts. After all, this is the bride’s magical day, her moment of true glory, the walk in white, the float down the aisle on Daddy’s arm, the glorious Cinderella moment that little girls fantasize about and big girls remember fondly. But this time, since it was my dear, darling, sweet, gorgeous nephew getting married and I was on the “groom’s” side, I turned the other way, and I watched Anthony instead.
While the rest of the church let out a collective sigh as the doors opened for the bride, Anthony did just the opposite. His chest, broad from Army Ranger training and decorated with an array of medals, including the Bronze Star he earned in Iraq last year, literally puffed as he sucked in a breath. His eyes glistened with joy, his smile was tentative at first, as though he couldn’t quite believe what he saw, then blinding as the truth hit him. I watched him mouth “Oh my God” to himself and saw him clench his hands as though the thrill that shot through him couldn’t quite be contained.
That look, that moment, that path that took him across the world and through the dangerous streets of Baghdad where he fought for fifteen months in the infantry, all the time dreaming of the day he would be home — whole and healthy — to marry Hannah – that is why I write romance.
As some icing on the wedding cake, it was a military wedding, so Anthony’s groomsmen, an array of the most breathtaking heroes you’d ever want to write about, formed the canopy of swords as the bride and groom exited the church, each man more scorchingly handsome than the next.
They would be another reason I write romance.
That night, we danced and toasted and feted the young couple for many hours under the stars. We clinked for kisses and captured them on camera, we laughed with our loved ones and teased the teenagers into slow dancing to a few Sinatra tunes. We waved hundreds of sparklers to send the newlyweds through a tunnel of light and off to their honeymoon, and then we sipped cabernet into the late hours, marveling that the little boy who once freaked out his mother when she found him in the yard swinging a dead rat by the tail and singing “Born In the USA!” had made it through war and to his own HEA. One young man at the wedding, a heartbreaker named Captain Clay Chase, told us that he and Anthony had spent many, many nights in a tent in Baghdad, planning and praying for this wedding to really take place. I’m certain there were nights when neither one of them was entirely sure it would.
When the evening finally ended and I closed my eyes to go to sleep, the only thing I could see was the look on Anthony’s face when he realized his dreams had come true. That time-standing-still moment when a hero is hit not by a bullet, but by the power of love, awash with the realization that no matter what battles he has to fight in life, he will not face them alone.
For the next two weeks, Murder She Writes will be bringing you our favorite blogs from the past. Then on Monday, January 4th, 2010, we’ll begin a new year with new blogs!
Today’s favorite blog from the past was written by Jordan Summers. There’s also a giveaway of an ARC of the second book in her Dead World trilogy, SCARLET. Enjoy!
SHOOTING YOURSELF IN THE FOOT…AND OTHER INJURIES I SUFFER FROM
Jordan Summers
I swear I start out with the best of intentions, but somewhere along the line things go horribly awry. I cannot for the life of me seem to focus on one genre. Yes, I know doing so would enable me to build a steady readership, expand my fan base, and keep my agent from yanking her hair out, but I can’t do it.
Believe me, I’ve tried.
I start out with a nice simple vampire idea, and then poof, a gargoyle ends up in my story. Actually, not only does the gargoyle invade my story, it takes over like it owns the place. I truly envy writers who’ve found their niche and focus all their attention on it. What does that feel like? Bliss, I bet.
Me, I’m like a shotgun blast going off in a crowd, intent on hitting everything and everybody within firing range.
No, I’m not ADD, so I can’t even use that as an excuse. (No offense to those who suffer from ADD.) I’ve come to the conclusion that my mind prefers the scenic rural route over the bustling highway. The ride’s sure been pretty, but the behavior has hindered my career.
Although I continue to build name recognition through my releases and my blog, readers don’t know where to ‘put’ me nor does my name tend to jump into their minds when they think about authors who write ‘X’. When pressed, they say I write funny action-adventure stories. I suppose that’s not a bad description, even though it’s not entirely accurate. Unfortunately, funny/action-adventure won’t exactly forward my career if the stories are also time-travel, urban fantasy, contemporary, and historical. And we won’t even talk about the dark humorless tales that I’ve just published. Where do they fit?
Win the ARC!
By now, I’m sure several of you are saying to yourselves, why don’t you just pick something and stick with it? Certainly sounds easy, doesn’t it? I swear I have tried. (Let the wails of frustration begin.) I thought focusing on paranormal novels would help. I love my new ideas, but even they don’t fall neatly into a specific category of paranormal. I’ve heard them described as horror romances (there’s a lot of death and blood), sci-fi thrillers, and dark urban fantasies. I’m like a genre-crossing magpie. Ooh, that looks shiny, new and interesting. Let’s add it to our story idea and see what happens.
Now I realize that as time passes the lines/genres begin to blur. Thank goodness. This makes me extremely happy. Or should I say it will, once they get to my category. *g*
Any other magpies out there?
CONTEST: Post a comment for your chance to win a copy of SCARLET!
For the next two weeks, Murder She Writes will be bringing you our favorite blogs from the past. Then on Monday, January 4th, 2010, we’ll begin a new year with new blogs! This blog below was one of my favorites probably because it was just so much fun to write.
Oh and although the blogs are repeats, we will try to be around for comments. Let’s face it, we have to check in or we’d miss you all too much!
TRADITIONS…
When I was five, my grandparents came to visit for Christmas, which meant they would be there on Christmas morning to open presents. This sounded like an utterly excellent idea because two more people probably meant at least one more present for me. Seriously, that was the whole point, right? I wasn’t sure how Christmas could be better, because I was pretty certain that Santa was bringing me my heart’s desire:
Oh, I so wanted that sucker. I think every third word out of my mouth had been Easy Bake Oven. For months. How my mother did not kill me and stuff me into pie I do not know. Seriously, I want to go back and tell that little kid that in the future, she was going to reference the kitchen as that big vague area with the refrigerator that holds the diet cokes so SAVE HER BREATH and ask for a toy typewriter. She is never going to bake cakes and pies and if she does, they are going to taste suspiciously like the mud that she used in the recipe for the Easy Bake Oven Chocolate Cake because she ran out of cake mix and mud was sort of the same color so it was the SAME THING, RIGHT? Oh, how I could save that little girl a lot of disappointment.
Anyway, even at five, I was dimly aware that my grandparents were slightly grumpy. [I think the expression "mean as a snake" had been used once in reference to my paw paw, but the Snake Union petitioned for a cease and desist on the grounds that it was slanderous and won.] It didn’t matter, though, because for starters, I pretty much hung the moon as far as my grandparents were concerned, and in my spare time, had tossed out a few stars. And it was Christmas. How on earth could anyone anywhere on the planet not be joyous because I was about to get presents?
Our family had the tradition that you were not allowed to open anything on Christmas Eve. I think somewhere around this point my parents caved and would allow ONE and only ONE present to be opened. I secretly think they had a betting pool going with the neighbors to see how many minutes of indecision it would take for me to pick out a present before my head exploded all over the tree.
I have no memory of whatever it was that I got that night because that night was the night before the Easy Bake Oven and the next morning was going to be the morning of the Easy Bake Oven. I could not fall asleep (I think we were made to go to bed around eight) and I was awake for hours counting down to the time that the house was quiet enough for me to hear if Santa came. And then I could hear him. Finally. But I knew that I was not allowed to get up to peek and believe me, I was not about to piss off the man who was bringing me the EASY BAKE OVEN OF HEAVEN, FOREVER AND EVER AMEN. So I stayed in bed and waited and waited and waited and the house was hushed and the crickets chirped their stupid cricket song that basically meant it was still nighttime and I was two rooms away from the Easy Bake Oven and it was KILLING ME.
I waited as long as I could. As. Long. As. I. Could. I think it was somewhere around four in the morning when I deemed it safe to slip out of bed because see, I had done that the year before–slipped out of bed early and gone in and played with my presents for a couple of hours in the OHMYGODIT’SEARLY o’clock that my parents typically awoke for, but I would studiously avoid every single year except on that one day. I crept along the hallway and went through the dining room, tiptoeing into the dark living room.
Now, I have incredible night vision, and practically have cat eyes–I could see the tree and all the presents Santa had laid out and there was no Easy Bake Oven. At least, not out in the center of the room in front of the tree, but I was not to be deterred, I knew that it was there, somewhere, it was calling to me, and I eased around presents and wove silently between packages until I was at the far side of the tree, and LO, IT WAS THERE. My little brother Mike had followed me in (but not before I had made it crystal freaking clear that he better not make a SINGLE SOLITARY SOUND that woke up our parents and ruined our early morning adventure, thus depriving me of the Easy Bake Oven or else he would DIE before he got to play with a single present and I was not kidding. That was the quietest that kid has ever been, to this day.)
But I don’t think I noticed because the Holy Grail of all Christmas presents was before me, and not even still stuck in the box–it was sitting out in all its glory where I could touch it. I quietly opened the little oven doors and moved around some of the cooking tins and I think I held my breath ’til I was completely lightheaded. The sheer awesomeness of its teal beauty made me want to weep with joy. It was bigger and better than I had imagined all of those times I had pointed to it in the catalog or on the TV commercial and it had a REAL stove top that was SHINY and from about two feet away, a deep male voice boomed, “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING IN HERE?”
I think I went through the tree, I left that room so fast. I’m 99% sure I trampled my little brother and knocked him unconscious and my footprints were on the tops of packages and the side of the wall and a couple of lampshades five feet off the ground. I made the land speed record getting back to my room and under my bed, in the far corner, with about three hundred stuffed animals in front of me to block the way of EVIL SANTA who clearly not only really sees you when you’re sleeping, but really freaking did know when you were awake.
It took them a couple of hours to find me.
It did not compute for half of the day that the voice had belonged to my paw paw, who’d been sound asleep on the sofa next to the tree until he suddenly awoke to noises in the room and thought someone was inside the house, stealing the presents, because he couldn’t actually see me in the dark on the other side of the Christmas tree, little as I was, hunkered down next to the Easy Bake Oven. It probably didn’t help me believe his tale of totally innocently scaring the living bejesus out of me because he laughed so hard, he had to keep wiping tears from his eyes as he re-told how I’d gone over objects as tall as his head to get out of that room.
Yesterday, my granddaughter Angie was zooming along the house–she’s fourteen months old and adorable and fascinated with the Christmas tree, but not entirely aware of what all of this is about yet, and it dawned on me that not too long from now, she is going to be five and she’s going to bug the living crap out of her parents for something and she’s going to probably take after me and tiptoe into the room in the wee hours of the morning to see what Santa brought her and I cannot tell you how much I will be tempted to find an excuse to spend the night on their sofa and pass down my paw paw’s tradition. Because if I get to see her plow over their tree and any potential siblings? Even if I have to pay for therapy for the next twenty years, it would be totally worth it.
(Kidding.) (Sort of.)
I can tell you this–I remember that Christmas with a crystalline clarity and I have no clue what the Christmases afterward were like, nor who visited.
So tell me about some of your crazy or not-so-crazy family traditions around this holiday season or what toy could you just not live without.
And here’s a close-up of a part of my tree… the tree is mostly teddy bears (three sizes, over a hundred bears) and apples and roses and doves (and not a single breakable thing, in case any future kid feels the need to go over the danged thing):
Tis the season! I hope you’ll enjoy this post the second time around! Watch for brand new killer blogs from MSW starting January 4th! For today, read on and I’ll drop by to chat!
Since I added the final polishing touches to my latest story yesterday and it’s almost Christmas, I’ve had a few hours to reflect on the holiday and my life. Christmas, I think, was a pivotal turning point for me when I was about eight. You see, I only have one sister and she’s a lot older than me, which left me no one to play with as a child except my brother (two years my junior) and all those male cousins. Mostly we played Cowboys and Indians and other shoot-em-up type games. We used sticks or our fingers as the guns. We had lots of fun running through the pastures and woods on the farm where I grew up. Oh and did we have some adventures! We happened upon snakes and skunks and possum and deer. We climbed trees and occasionally fell out but fortunately didn’t break anything. We waded through creeks. Lots and lots of high energy fun (which is exactly why I never allowed my girls out of my sight as they were growing up). Anyway, when I was about eight we all gathered around the Christmas tree to open presents and my “big” gift was a lovely baby doll all dressed in pink with a diaper bag and bottle. I should have been thrilled but all I could do was look at my brother’s present and wail. You see my brother had gotten this cool gun and holster set. To make matters worse, every single one of my cousins had gotten the same thing! What kind of Santa would do that? How was I supposed to have a shoot out with my brother and cousins with a frigging baby doll???? Thankfully, Santa, having realized his mistake, executed a do over that very night. The next morning I woke up and a shiny gun with holster lay at my feet on the bed.
So you see, I was destined to do something with guns from early on. Since then I’ve branched out and and turned to other methods of torture and murder. Lucky for me, the summer after the baby doll incident my Mother found an old typewriter at a yard sale and made my life complete. I had been handwriting stories and she wanted to nurture my love of storytelling. That was a really long time ago, but since it’s almost Christmas and I just completed a big do over of my own, I was reminded of those carefree days.
We make a lot of decisions everyday, lots and lots of little ones and some bigger ones. Some conscious, some instinctive. At the time of each decision we have motive for making that decision and are fairly certain it’s the right way to go based on how we feel and perhaps advice from others. Sometimes it turns out to be a good one, sometimes not. Sometimes it turns out to be a bad decision which triggers a better decision and ultimately proves the bad decision was the only way to go in the first place–if that makes sense. To prove my point, I just experienced the latter with my latest story for St. Martins. I wrote a synopsis for the story and it was approved. Then, as I was writing the story, I came up with this stellar idea that would surely make it even better than I had proposed. I incorporated all these changes and a couple of extra characters. When it was finished I was proud of myself for this cool new direction. I sent the project to my editor and breathed a sigh of relief. I promptly went to work on another project, one for Harlequin Intrigue, all the while anticipating how surprised my editorial team at SMP would be. They were surprised all right. But not in a particularly good way. A phone call was made and I quickly saw the consequences of the decisions I had made. It wasn’t that the story was bad as written, but there were problems with the way I wanted to end the story and then move into the next one which would be closely connected. Hmm…I hadn’t thought of the points my editor made. Obviously, I should have. All I could see, at the time I was making said decisions, was the story in front of me. Now, time was short. Changes had to be made quickly. So I plunged into the revision knowing I was going to be darned lucky to pull it off as quickly as was needed. I worked day and night, did nothing else but ponder the story when I was supposed to be sleeping and pound the keys the rest of the time. When I emailed it to my editor I was certain I had done exactly what needed to be done based on her concerns. I gave my brain a rest over the weekend. Then, yesterday I read through the finished work. And guess what? SHE WAS MORE THAN RIGHT! The story was ten times better and I was so very proud. My husband breathed a sigh of relief and muttered something to the effect that it was probably perfect the way I’d done it the first time. (He always champions me, the sweetie pie!)
But then, last night as I considered the fact that I have no holiday shopping done and dinner is at my house in a mere two days–I realized something else. Not only was the story ten times better after the revision, but making the wrong decision as I initially wrote the story had been an essential element to the final outcome. If I had not written the story wrong or different or whatever, I wouldn’t have realized certain things afterward. I wouldn’t have looked at the characters in this certain light that my editor pointed out. I wouldn’t have realized I needed another element that proved the final meshing of the two main protagonists. So, ultimately, my do over was absolutely the best thing that could have happened to me the past couple of weeks. Like Santa (aka my mother) all those years ago, the do over prompted a wondrous result.
Maybe everything does happen for a reason. I don’t know. But I do know that life is a journey and so is the writing. Just when you think you know what you’re doing, you realize maybe you don’t. You’re just going after the dream…or perhaps the obsession. And with some luck and lots of determination it all works out in the end.
So, with mere hours to go before the Christmas festivities, what revelations or do overs have you experienced lately or in the past that made you stop and think and realize that a particular choice (maybe a wrong one) ultimately turned out for the absolute best?
For the next two weeks, Murder She Writes will be bringing you our favorite blogs from the past. Then on Monday, January 4th, 2010, we’ll begin a new year with new blogs! This blog below was one of my favorites probably because it was just so much fun to write.
Oh and although the blogs are repeats, we will try to be around for comments. Let’s face it, we have to check in or we’d miss you all too much!
Dear Friends and Family.
What a year it’s been! I can’t believe the holidays are here again. Right away, you’ll notice my return address has changed to Folsom Correctional Institution for Women. I can explain.
It all started because I wanted to write a romance novel. Doesn’t that sound lovely? So I told my husband and kids. My husband said, “Does that mean I’ll get more?” He waggled his eyebrows in the universal male symbol for Me-Want-Sex. Then said, “What’s for dinner?”
My kids looked at me blankly, then suddenly remembered the school projects that were due TOMORROW! They needed poster board, glue, magazines, glitter and they need it all right now!
So I figured I’d start writing my book tomorrow, after I cooked dinner, bought poster board and cleaned up the awful mess from above mentioned glue and glitter.
The next day I got hubby off to work and the kids off to school. I poured some coffee and sat down to write my book. Then my mother called and wanted to have lunch. “Mom, I’m busy. I’m going to write a romance.”
A tirade unfolded in my ear, “I had a wonderful career as a dancer until I got knocked up with you. Then it was four months of morning sickness, four days of horrendous labor, colicky screaming day and night so that I couldn’t keep a sitter to work…my career was ruined! And all I want in return is to go to lunch with my daughter!”
So I’ll start writing my book tomorrow.
The next day, I got hubby off to work, kids off to school, and barely turned on my computer when my husband called and said, “Guess what! Mr. Big is in town and I invited him to dinner tonight. I told him you make the best homemade lasagna. We’ll be there for drinks at 6:00 pm. Uh, and honey, this time can you straighten up the house before we get there? And tell the kids to be good?”
Later that night, while Mr. Big was draining glass after glass of wine, he asked me what I do (uh, hello? See the home cooked lasagna?), I told him I was working on a romance novel. He waggled his eyebrows, although he was so drunk only one eyebrow lifted and said, “So you write that sex stuff bored housewives like.” I knew then that we didn’t have enough wine for me to get through the night.
The next morning, I snarled everyone out of the house, straightened up and THIS TIME, I got my laptop and went to Starbucks to write. I ordered myself a nice latte and sat down to work.
The gym-moms schlepped in. You all know about the gym-moms right? They drop their kids off at school and go to an actual gym. These women run around with words like “Juicy” on their toned rear ends. I could write the entire states of Massachusetts and Mississippi across my rear end and have room for the state capitals too. One of them asked me what I was doing. I told her writing a romance novel. She looked down her nose, “Oh I don’t read that trash.”
“Honey, you have “You Wish” on your ass! You ARE that trash. Just saying…” I pointed out nicely and tried, again, to work on my romance. I even managed to tune out the gym-moms chatter about their diets (what the freaking hell is tofu?). But alas, I only got a half page written when the school called on my cell.
Both kids had the stomach flu. Desperately wishing I could have a sick day, I picked up the kids and took them home to spend two days in a House of Horrors. Two sick kids and a husband who still thought he should go to poker night. I set him straight! “No way, dude! I’ve tried all week to work on my book. All I want is two hours to myself.”
My husband got a sudden call from his boss saying he had to come into work right away and he took off like the hounds of hell were chasing him. The selfish weasel.
So I guess I’d work on the book over the weekend.
At the kids’ soccer game, I had my laptop going, trying to write my romance. One person after another asked what I was doing. All the men cracked the same joke. “Need any help with the research?” Then they waggled their eyebrows in case I was too stupid to get that they were talking about sex.
I didn’t get one page written. Not one. And the team mom yelled at me because I brought fruit roll ups and juice boxes for snacks, and “They Are Not On The Approve Snack List.”
Just then my husband had the audacity to show up. Think he ever got his sorry hide out of bed and took the kids to the games? Not unless it was snowing at Satan’s house, you hear what I’m saying? No, true to form, he arrived at the very end of the game, acting like he’s the best father ever for making the effort. And to top it off, Ms. “You Wish” Ass tittered around, flirting with him. My husband puffed up like a overstuffed peacock. Ms. “You Wish” Ass, in the long held tradition of trashy women, decided to make fun of me and said, “She’s so involved in her trashy book, she didn’t even bring the right snacks today.”
My peacock husband said importantly, “I have to help her with the research on all the sexy parts.” Then he waggled his eyebrows at Ms. “You Wish” Ass.
In that instant, I saw the light. I didn’t want to write a romance! I wanted, no I needed to write a book about murder!
My husband was my first research subject.
Now I have lots of time to write here in the Folsom Correctional Institution for Women. Oh, and I’ve lost all of Massachusetts and a good portion of Mississippi off my ass.
I’m sorry I’m late posting this today. Thank you to everyone who participated — I loved reading your favorites!
Our contest winner for Wednesday’s Visa card is commenter #32 — Lois. CONGRATULATIONS!!
Lois, if you’d write to me at toni[dot]causey[at]gmail[dot]com and give me a mailing address for you, I’ll get that Visa Card right out to you. If you would prefer that card to be an Amazon card, that’s okay, too — either way is fine.
RT Book Reviews reviewed ORIGINAL SIN as “Urban Fantasy” which isn’t 100% accurate, but is more accurate than paranormal romance. What I’m writing is not definable by a popular label. I don’t say this because I’m special or advanced or supersmart–in fact, I think I’m kind of an idiot because I didn’t craft the series into an easily definable genre. On the one hand, I tell myself, “There’s nothing quite like this out there.” On the other hand, I tell myself, “There’s no market for this story” largely because it’s different. But again, it’s not original because there is nothing new under the sun. It’s classic supernatural, where good is good (sort of) and bad is bad (very). The review at least alleviated some of my fears that my readers wouldn’t come with me:
I recently bought a book solely for the cover. David Hewson’s THE GARDEN OF EVIL. (Great title, too!) But I was looking at covers that evoked a mood, specifically for my upcoming supernatural thriller series, and this one jumped out at me. It’s not that this cover would fit my story, but it gave me the right feeling.
Other Posts by Allison Brennan 
As some icing on the wedding cake, it was a military wedding, so Anthony’s groomsmen, an array of the most breathtaking heroes you’d ever want to write about, formed the canopy of swords as the bride and groom exited the church, each man more scorchingly handsome than the next.
When the evening finally ended and I closed my eyes to go to sleep, the only thing I could see was the look on Anthony’s face when he realized his dreams had come true. That time-standing-still moment when a hero is hit not by a bullet, but by the power of love, awash with the realization that no matter what battles he has to fight in life, he will not face them alone.
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