Everyone, please welcome the phenomenal Cie Adams, best known to many of you as C. T. Adams and as Cat Adams. Along with Cathy Clamp, Cie has written both the USA Today bestselling Sazi and Thrall series with Tor Books, as well as the stand-alone Magic’s Design. This month, she has an all-new treat for you — the first book in a new urban fantasy series that will appeal to both adult and young adult readers.

One lucky commentor will win an ARC of the second book in this awesome new series! Enjoy!

A lot of readers are aspiring authors. And every author I’ve ever met is a voracious reader. (Although, frankly, most don’t have nearly enough time to read for pleasure any more.) So, it shouldn’t have been a surprise when I got an interesting comment on my blog about quality of writing after I posted an installment in one of the serial stories I have running. The comment got me thinking. Writing is an art. But it is also a craft.

As an art writing requires inspiration, the author’s unique view and perspective, creativity and observation.

As a craft it requires a grasp of the language, the mechanics of storytelling.
This is a wonderful thing. Because it means that all writers (the best and the worst) can grow, improve, and get better.

Don’t believe me? Go to your shelves. Pull one of the first books published by your favorite author (preferably the first book in a series). Pull the most recent book they’ve put out as well. Now compare the writing.

The plotting and the characters may be no better. (They may even be worse. Deadline stress can cause real problems for established writers, and it sometimes shows.) But the writing itself will probably have improved by leaps and bounds.

To prove my theory I pulled out first and most recent books in two different series:

Guilty Pleasures and Flirt by Laurell K. Hamilton; and
Storm Front and Turncoat by Jim Butcher.

Now, I own all four books, and like them. The first book in both series introduced me to characters I love, and interested me enough to hook me for the many, many books that followed. I still re-read them periodically. But they are not as polished and well-written as the later books. I look at the first book I got published and um . . . blush. Because there are so many things I’d do differently now that I’ve got a few years experience behind me. I still am proud of the first book. But you live, and if you stay in the business you learn. You learn from what you read. You learn from the edits given to you by a gifted editor. And you assimilate this knowledge into the writing without even knowing you do it.

You can’t learn the art part. But you can and should do everything you can to learn and practice the craft. Your readers deserve the best you can give them.

Fortunately, writing is something you learn by doing as well as by studying. So read. Then write. And keep writing. Then write some more. The results will show, even if you don’t notice it at the time.

——-

You can find Cie at:
website: www.ciecatrunpubs.com
Twitter : @ctadamsauthor
blog: ciesblog.blogspot.com

And don’t forget to comment for your chance to win an ARC of Book #2, Siren Song. Book #1, Blood Song, releases June 8th (but is shipping from many vendors now…)!!

Wow! We have two winners this weekend! We love giving away great books and prizes here at MurderSheWrites!

As we head off for Memorial Day holidays, it’s a good time to say thank you to our men and women in uniform, past and present, for the sacrifices they have made for our country. I know that I for one take my freedom for granted every single day, and we all owe our armed forces a huge debt of gratitude. Too bad most of us only think about this a few times a year.

I have never been in a war. I’ve never even been in a war zone. The closest I have been was touring Ground Zero about a year after 9/11, and if anyone doubts whether those attacks constituted an act of war against our country, I would say talk to someone who was there that day and I bet you will change your mind.

I experience war the way many Americans do–through the filter of the media. I read about it in newspapers, online, see it on TV, and occasionally pick up a book about it. It is through the words of writers–some professional and some not–that I feel a sense of loss, sacrifice, awe, horror, and gratitude over the experiences of people who represent my country overseas.

Today I want to share with you a few books, all about different wars, that really struck a chord with me. In short, they made me cry. They also made me laugh and wonder and feel grateful for those who have served our country.

The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien – This poignant collection of stories about Vietnam gives a very personal and humanizing glimpse into the lives of a handful of soldiers by examining the things they carried with them through the jungle: “They carried malaria tablets, love letters, 28-pound mine detectors, dope, illustrated Bibles, each other.” (from the back cover copy)

Cold Mountain by Charles Frazier — This is a love story, first and foremost, but it really drove home for me how bloody the Civil War was and made me realize how close we came to not being a United States.

Lone Survivor by Marcus Luttrell and Patrick Robinson — A terrifying and extremely moving account, set in the Afghanistan-Pakistan border region, of one of the bloodiest days ever for America’s Navy SEALs. What got me about this book was the gray areas. It made me think about how difficult it is to draw a hard line between right and wrong, especially on the modern battlefield. I read the whole book as told through the eyes of this Navy SEAL who watched his friends die, and even in hindsight, I have no idea how I would have responded if faced with the same impossible choices. This book made me think, and I believe that’s the hallmark of an effective war story.

Can you recommend any books about war or soldiers? Or maybe you saw a movie that really hit home? Please share your thoughts!

And a safe and happy Memorial Weekend to everyone!

I ran away from home this morning.

Well, not away away, just sort of away, just a little bit of a stone’s throw away. I came to the fishing camp my dad has on Lake Verret (near Pierre Part, LA), where you see a lot of swamp and rivers and fishing boats.

I came because we are remodeling the bathroom at our house (um, still) and there is progress (tile people and cabinet people and countertop people) and there are family members traipsing in and out (clearly a closed door is no impediment, not even locked, because they stand there and knock.) And then there are the noisy dogs next door who are frantic with the intention of announcing every single coming and going of said aforementioned people, lest I not notice them all working right outside my office door. You know, with the banging and the hammering and the dropping of tiles (was that a whole box? just half? do we have enough to finish? wait… was that another one? are you guys sticking them to the wall with spit? seriously?) And the dogs… there are seven dogs, to be exact, who are in my neighbor’s yard, just underneath my office window, where one dog in particular has a bark the exact tenor which will impress you mightily that she is being stabbed, repeatedly, and is about to die, right this minute… or that minute… or maybe this other minute… and she will keep barking like that until every last soul has gone to sleep. She never loses her voice. I wanted to hate her but she rolls over and begs for her stomach to be rubbed and she is a rescue dog who is finally glad she is alive, I think, with people who feed her, so I’m trying not to think ill will in her direction.

Add in a very exuberant granddaughter toddling in all cute and fat cheeked and crinkly smile and happy joy joy joy joy JOY at crayons and paper and whoops, that white wall looked just like that white paper… and the phone ringing (and half of the time, not my phone, but one of the workers phones) (and by the way, just why on earth would someone program a ring to sound like an 18-wheeler backing up? you know that beeep beeeep beeeep beeeeeep beeeep sound? that one? every couple of minutes? and you start thinking about exactly how a stapler might just be a potential murder weapon and how you could convince the cops that oops, he slipped and fell on it.)

So yeah… it was time to run away from home for the day.

The camp is an old trailer set on the lake, with a pier and a porch that my dad and husband and sons and brother built. There’s not a single thing fancy here, or even half-way fancy, and because of that, it’s relaxing. I packed up some snacks and lunch, headed out here, got set up, and then had to verify with my dad’s neighbor that I was not, in fact, a thief absconding with… well, I’m not really sure what anyone would abscond with from here, but I wasn’t hauling out the burnt orange stained chairs, probably the best of the lot that are here, so the place was safe.

And I’ve been writing. It’s been GLORIOUS. I would tell you it’s beautiful outside, and it is, but it’s hot and I have been lazily ensconced in an old(ish) easy chair that is ridiculously comfortable. I suspect I will be coming back here regularly, in spite of the hour drive. I might actually be able to focus here, and make real progress on the book.

The book. Which has turned darker and darker, which breaks my heart and makes it soar, which is unfolding things about this world and this character for me that makes me feel like it’s more of a gift handed to me than something I’ve been actively writing. I can’t really explain it to you. I know the basic plot, the path, but I never really plot anything in details. I do a sort of overall timeline of events on my whiteboard and even though it’s up there, I can go weeks without ever referring to it. When I do, it’s more out of surprise that huh, sure enough, that thing I just came up with fits in with the overall intent, wouldja look at that.

I never used to be able to run away from home like this–not when the kids were little, not even when they were big and the construction company needed so much of my time. Not even this past year when there were so many things, just so so so many things that went upside down or sideways, health-wise for family, or friends, or just busy busy busy with the business and then I realized, it was never ever going to end if I didn’t start taking the time back. Carving it out and declaring it mine, guilt free. (And having a contract doesn’t really make it all that much easier to carve out time… it tends, if you’re anything like me, to just add pressure, because you feel like you have to do everything you did before and the new stuff, too.)

Then I read Allison’s blog from last week on Murderati and then last night, stumbled across an essay on Salon by someone who apparently gives advice (I don’t think I’ve ever read him before)… and he was talking about something entirely unrelated to writing, but he was talking about treating yourself like you matter. And he was saying (paraphrasing) to the young couple that he knew they didn’t have money for an attorney, but he could tell from the tone of the letter that there was a hint or something that because they weren’t able to afford a lot, they weren’t deserving of even a little. And he said to them, “Pretend like you matter.” If you can’t feel it, just pretend like it, because you do. Your needs matter.

Which is when I realized, well, damn. He’s talking to me. I’ve gotten caught up in so many other things, I have had less and less time to write. And I’m behind on my schedule.

So I ran away from home today. I’m probably going to do that for the next few days ’til I’m caught up, and then exercise the right to drop off the planet fairly regularly so that I can tell this story that is churning in my heart, which has taken up residence in my head to a point where I have to sift through the names of the characters when I’m trying to think of my own family’s names. It’s that bad, the grip it has. So now it’s time to get it done.

Tell me what the last thing was that you did for YOU?

Lately there have been some eye-poppin’ men gracing the MurderSheWrites posts, as several of my friends have revealed their new covers and the heroes they’ve created.

I’m certainly not above the occasional “oh my” or even a bit of “heaven help us,” but I have a little secret to divulge here. I’m kind of embarrassed about it, really, but the truth is that when I see most of those fellas on the covers, my initial thought runs to “Does your mama know you took your shirt off?” and “Here darlin’, let me fix you a sandwich.”

It’s not that I’m a prude, it’s just that I’m old enough to be most of these guys’ mom. Or at least their much older sister. And maybe it’s just that I’m right in the thick of parenting my own stubborn teenage boy, and so my dial’s set to “maternal smothering,” but I just can’t seem to get into a cougar frame of mind.

HOWEVER.

I can look at the older gents all week long and twice on sundays. I’d probably get arrested if folks found out what I was thinking about the nice man a few rows up in church or at the Home Depot or in the Wendy’s drive-thru (especially if he’s driving a truck, you know, maybe with some sort of manly carpentry tools in the back).

I don’t mean guys in their 70s (though I bet you when I turn seventy myself that’ll be a whole different story), I mean guys….you know, around my age. Which is 40-something, if anyone’s counting.

So I’m just wondering – how do you guys feel about a mature hero? Here’s the thing – after I made a big fuss about insisting that my heroine Stella get to be squarely middle aged (there was some early pressure to make her younger) I couldn’t very well give her a 35-year-old boy toy.

I mean I *could* have, and there is nothing wrong with that relationship in another book, but it didn’t fit with her character at all. No, my Stella is a widowed woman reclaiming her life and ready for a Man with a capital ‘M’, hard miles and all; a man who has the wisdom and experience to handle her.

Luckily, when it was time to create the character of her love interest, Sheriff Goat Jones, I had just met the perfect model to base him on. I feel like it would be unseemly to reveal his identity, but he is a very nice crime writer in his mid-50s who has, let’s say, kept himself up nice. I only met him briefly, but it was enough to build on, and I had fun “fleshing out” (no! I will not go there! no entendres…) Stella’s BF.

But every good series heroine needs a second fella to catch her eye, to maintain tension while she goes from book to book having adventures. I was lucky there too. I had created Big Johnson “B.J.”, a big-hearted bar owner who served in the first gulf war before moving to Prosper, in the first book and when I started writing the second, I realized he had his own romantic charms. Now, in book four…well, you’ll just have to wait to see what those two get up to!

Both these gents are in their mid-50s.  Both are tall, but Goat has a wiry, muscular build from all the kayaking he does on Lake of the Ozarks. Also, he’s bald and has blue-blue eyes. B.J., on the other hand, is a more solid-type guy, the kind you can get a good hold on.

Here’s how I see them: Goat is for sure J.T. Ellison (the dad from Juno):

B.J.could be played by Tim Allen, if he’d put on a few pounds for the role:

There’s one more middle-aged guy in Stella’s life, her very good friend Jelloman Nunn. He’s not a romantic figure - more like a big brother, and he would be played perfectly by another character actor, Mark Boone Jr.:

Speaking of Stella and her guys – A BAD DAY FOR SORRY is available in paperback today! To celebrate, I’m raffling off a signed copy. For a chance to win, just leave a comment telling us what mature actor you think is HOT!