Party Like a Writer

I think, by nature, writers are observers of the human experience. We kinda have to be. It’s where a lot of us find our creative inspiration. As a manner of principal, I fore-warn all new friends that anything that do and say is subject to fodder, unless expressly state that it is off-limits… so I know to change their name. As you can imagine, most of them laugh it off, and occasionally I get a raised eyebrow like they aren’t sure if I’m joking or not. Those are the smart ones. Of course there are even less fortunate souls: the ones who are destined to become antagonists or dead bodies in my books. A word of warning: Never make a writer mad. They will not fight you openly, but they will burn you in effigy for as long as words exist.

With all that said, it stands to reason that the holiday season is a great opportunity to steal some stellar one-liners, squeeze some serious subplot inspiration from that family drama that inevitably occurs and take mental note of b study body image.  This last one is my favorite, mainly because I am so bad at coming up with other words for my fave go to combinations. ALL my characters shrug. A lot. So taking time to study people has been pretty interesting. I can normally tell when people are disappointed with their gifts or when it’s something they really want. It’s not always a good thing, especially when the gift of disappointment is the one you gave. Seriously, that totally sucks.

New Year’s Eve is another time to party like a writer. I have always wanted to walk into a crowded bar, find a perfect bird’s eye view vantage point and just take notes. How she tosses her hair, how he walks away dejected from the said hair tosser’s brush off. How my brain feels after listening to the thumping music for hours and how the sweat on the glass slips neatly down the side until it pools at the base.

The holidays are a mecca for inspiration and it’s amazing to me how often I forget to stop and ogle the literary eye candy.  We can draw inspiration from it like a well. Yet how many of us don’t. How many of us have our characters sigh and look down at their wringing hands?

Yeah, you, in the back. I see you trying to blend in with the crowd. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you.

The point is, partying like a rock star is a cliché. It’s time to party like a writer. And I’m not the only one who thinks so. Check out this post I found on Lucky Leo Blog. Sure, we don’t have the same idea of partying like a writer, but it’s obvious the trend is catching on. Don’t be left behind.

No matter how you party like a writer, BE PASSIONATE about your good times and make sure they keep on rolling. (I couldn’t resist.)

New Adult Fiction vs. the Literary World

You know how agents and authors are always telling you to write the story that needs to be told and not to worry about following the trends? I think this is true. Except when it comes to New Adult Fiction.

Now, in case you aren't familiar with "New Adult" Fiction, here's the gist of it: A couple years ago, St. Martin's Press thought it would be a great idea to introduce a new genre of fiction with main characters age 18-24. After all, the readers who bought Harry Potter and Twilight have to grow up sometimes, right? They held a pitch contest and the winners got a book. From what I can tell, none of the winners were ever published, other than in E-Book format, and that is most likely by their own accord.

The books St. Martin's did publish under this "new genre" was a re-launch of the Sweet Valley High books... where Jessica and Elizabeth are ten years out of high school and torn apart by some horrid secret. (As a quick review... I read the book... I read the first few chapters... I could not go on. It was so much less than I expected. From what I can tell, only two books were ever printed, and there are an additional four stories as part of the E-serial. I'm not saying the books were horribly disappointing... I'll leave that to those who posted reviews.)

But the cat was out of the bag and writers, like me, who were writing books about college students, or the recently graduated college students had reason to hope that this relatively untapped corner of the market would open up. We wrote about being on your own for the first time, not having mom and dad there to help you make your decisions, having to clean up your own mess (literally and figuratively), etc. And a couple have gotten past the gatekeeper to book deals. Cora Carmack, author of Losing It, comes to mind, but her success is a rarity.

Here's the thing, in the literary world, it's not the writers who run the show. It's not the agents. It's not even the publishing houses. It's the retail chains. If Barnes and Noble doesn't like the title or the cover, it gets changed. Publishing houses have to pay for prime placement in the stores. It's the way capitalism works. I get that, and I'm not complaining. It is what it is. However, for this "emerging market", B&N is the only nail needed to put it in it's coffin.

At my first writer's conference, I was ready to pitch my novel, The Partizans. But as the weekend went on, the only thing I heard from agents is how I really needed to make my 19 year old college sophomore a high school student. One of them actually suggested I have the story unfold in a prep academy, "which is almost the same as college, so I wouldn't have to do much revising". Except that this book is intended to be part of a series. A series in which the characters struggle with balancing their destiny with their desire to have normal lives. There's a wedding in the future. Babies. Learning that sometimes love isn't enough to get you through the rough patches. (And before someone says, Yeah, didn't they do that in Twilight, just don't.)

Back to my point: I wanted my characters to be in college. I wanted them to explore their freedoms and experience what it's like to have your dreams tampered with by reality. I didn't want them to be in a prep school... like so many books that were coming out at that time.

But that's exactly what I did. I made my MC three years younger, took out a couple scenes I felt inappropriate for the YA crowd and sold out. I told myself I was doing it for the right reasons. I wanted to be an author, not someone who writes just for my friends and family. I forgot the most important person I was writing for: ME.

Since I wrote this book, I've had some interest, but it's a paranormal, so most of the time I get the "saturation of the market" bit. After thinking about it, I decided to pull the book back and planned to submit it later, when the market wasn't so saturated. But it's been bugging me. Since doing this, I've written two more books. One is a first in the series YA Thriller with a "pre-dystopian" slant and the  other is a YA Ghost story ( think Mean Girls meets A Christmas Carole). But the Partizans has been on my mind a lot lately. The second version, or "The Academy" version is okay, but honestly, I don't have the passion about it that I had when I first wrote it. And as you can tell from my posts, being passionate about what you do with your time and your life are important to me... so much so that it's my mantra and will someday be my tag with my signature! (Coming to a book store near you in 20??.)

Last night, I decided it was time for a change. I decided it was time to stay true to my creativity and vision. So after I'm done with revisions on Replay, I'm going back to the Partizans. I'm taking what I have learned about writing these last two years and am making one more revision pass. Then I'm sending it out. And if every single agent turns me down, I'm doing something I said I would never do: I'm going to prepare it for self-publishing. I refuse to let a bookseller have so much control over the industry that it impacts the passion I have for my own work. I will not let my creativity and vision be hijacked by the layout of a store. Yes, by self-publishing, I will lose my "debut" novel status and thus be ineligible for several awards, but I didn't make sacrifices to be a writer on the chance I might win some prize. I made them because I want to share my stories with others. And if there isn't space on the shelf, I'm pretty sure I can find room on the internet.

So BE PASSIONATE about what you love and don't let anyone make you second-guess yourself! Be who you are and do what you love!

Dear Santa

Halloween is almost upon us, so you know what that means: It’s almost Christmas!!!!

What? What do you mean “Thanksgiving”? I have no idea what you are talking about. Oh wait, you mean that day of the year where everyone stuffs themselves with turkey and then the women clean in the kitchen and the men watch football and complain about the quarterback or the defense? Gee… can’t understand how I could over look that festive event.

But, while I’m on the subject of Christmas, I might as well get my letter to Santa out early. You know, beat the rush.

Dear Santa,

2012 has been a wild year for everyone and I’m sure life is pretty busy up at the North Pole. In the next few weeks, you’ll be getting letters from Kidlets 1 and 2 with requests for Legos and Pokemon games for the Wii and DS, but for today, it’s just me.

I’ve been very good this year. Yes, I know you hear that a lot, but in this case, it’s true… well, mostly. And, in light of my mostly goodness, I would like to respectfully submit my Christmas wish list, along with an explanation as to why it’s so important.

1. More K Cups for the Kurieg you gave me last year. You see, I spend a lot of time in a java induced state, between raising the kids, keeping our family life in order (barely) and occasionally cleaning the house. That doesn’t include the time needed to write my current WIP. Without coffee, it’s likely I would be committed to the funny farm where, it turns out, life isn’t all that funny. However, the rising cost of everything added to my husband’s, noble yet time consuming job mean money and time for fru-fru drinks at the fancy coffee place down the street is precious. The Kurieg has taken the worry out of my addiction, but sadly, I’m running low on those bad for the environment plastic cups that can’t be recycled and the golden grounds that reside within them. Please help me maintain a healthy balance between life and writing by dropping off a few boxes… or ten.

2. A new, ergonomic chair for my desk. Something that comforts me when my butt is in it but the ideas aren’t flowing as fast as I want them to. Good posture is not a luxury for a writer. It’s a need. So a request for a chocolate brown leather chair with massage and heat options isn’t really a luxury at all, as you can plainly see.

3. A signed copy of any JK Rowling book. I would prefer Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. (That would be the UK edition). If you’re having problems getting this, check out ebay…. Just make sure you get a certificate of authenticity… and  a picture of JK actually signing it. You can’t trust anybody these days!

4. A finished writing room. In order to get this, the kidlets will have to be moved into their new suite and the Wall-E mural will have to be primed, so I would take a gift card from Home Depot in lieu of the actual finished project, along with the power to freeze time so I can actually get the room painted.

5. A finished novel. I’ve been making great progress on the current WIP, but in order to secure the next item on my list, a finished, revised manuscript is needed. Perhaps we can implement the previously mentioned freezing of time to allow me to deliver this to myself. After all, I love a DIY project!

6. As I mentioned, I need a completed manuscript for my next request. It’s not a big one… oh, who am I kidding… it’s huge. I would like an agent. I’m not saying I actually want you to gift wrap and agent and shove him or her under the tree. That would be ridiculous. But an actual partner to help me navigate my (hopefully) marathon-long career of publishing would be much appreciated. Perhaps, if you are unable to deliver this one, I’ll be forced to turn to your nemesis, the Easter Bunny… I’m just saying.

And that’s it. I hope you don’t find my list too long or the items too difficult to deliver. I realize the time freezing one may provide a challenge, but you’re the big guy in red. If anyone can pull this off, it would be you. I know you are working hard to get your ride ready for the big day and I won’t keep you any longer. Good luck as you enter the home stretch of living out your PASSION for bringing joy to good girls and boys around the world. I’ll have some cookies, Coca-Cola® and Aleve® waiting for you when you stop by the house!

The Voices in my Head

Someone once told me that writer’s block doesn’t exist. And, to a large extent, I agree. If you sit in the chair long enough, words are going to run through your head. They will. But what if the words running through your head aren’t yours? What if they are the words of every bitchy, jealous, hateful person who has tried to pull you down, disguised as your voice?

Like many writers, I battle against the forces of negativity every day. Most of the time, I’m able to swat them away like they’re nothing more than an annoying gnat on a summer day. But then there are the darker times. When what I want is to climb into bed, throw Poptarts at my kids when they ask what’s for dinner, and hide from the voices that tell me I’m no good, or that I’m foolish for thinking I could ever write something people would want to read.

Where does this come from? Because, if I’m being honest, I mean completely honest, I have practiced my interview for when I’m on the Ellen Show. I have imagined what it would be like to see my story up on the marquee at the local movie theater. I have dreams that, most the time, don’t seem unattainable.

So, what I’m saying is, I rarely lack for confidence. But there are moments. Moments when I question if my house being in shambles because I’m in the middle of major revisions or heading off to the local coffee shop to get a chapter or two done in one sitting while my husband stays home with the kids is really worth it.

I don’t know if people who aren’t in the industry understand how hard it is to be a writer. I’m not saying it’s the toughest job out there, not by a long shot. As my husband likes to put it, especially when I’m being particularly whiny, “It’s not like you’re working in a coal mine in Chile.”

Touché, dear hubby, and have fun sleeping alone on the couch tonight. Okay, I jest, but being creative, taking your work with you every single place you go, can sometimes wear a person out. How many of you have taken your laptops on vacation just in case you can squeeze in a few hours of work in the hotel while everyone else is asleep? I know I’m not the only one. Heck, some of my best chapters were written in a dark room at Great Wolf Lodge.

Okay, back to the negative thoughts. I’m struggling right now. And based on conversations I’ve had with other writers, I’m not alone. So what do we do? What do we, as a writing community, do when we see other writer’s struggle? How do we tell them it will get better and that yes, it’s okay to let your kids play an extra hour of video games so you can finish a really tricky scene?

And if it’s not writer’s block, what is it?

I have a theory. I think it’s a test. A way for our creative selves to push us past what we think is possible. To make us struggle. To make us want it all that much more. To force us to believe in ourselves more than anyone else and look that negative Nancy in the imaginary face and knock her lights out.

It’s a chance for us to be the hero in our own journey. We rescue our manuscripts from the evil clutches of the evil manila envelope and carry it safely back to the land of completion where it will live happily ever after, at least until Lord Revision comes to marry it.

Can you tell I’ve been catching up on Once Upon a Time?

I’m not saying getting published or even finishing that first, second, fiftieth novel is a slam dunk. We all make the rookie mistakes. The difference is who can push through the negativity and disappointment to achieve the highest level of literary success they possibly can.

No matter what obstacles are in your way, remember to BE PASSIONATE about what you’re writing. You are your #1 Fan!

Everything Changes

On Wednesday, everything changed. No, the sun did not stop shining and time continues on, even as the tears fall down my face, but it is different. I was just beginning to adjust to the fact that my grams, my constant supporter, no longer walked along the mortal plane when my 19 year old cousin was taken too soon.

And my heart shattered. It aches for her parents who watched her grow from a fiery, trickster little girl into an amazingly strong and fiercely independent woman new to her adult life. It breaks for her friends who were inspired by her. And I weep for our entire family. Being far away from her, I didn’t get to see her as much as I would have liked. That’s what happens when you leave home to start your own life… you are always missing out. However, I have definitely received a crash course in all things Becca over the last three days, and I am so proud to call this courageous, vivacious and impish woman part of my family tree.

When my grams passed away, I was relieved. Seeing my rock withering in pain was more than I could handle. But for someone so young and full of life to die is mind-blowing. It’s like the brain refuses to acknowledge it’s even a possibility. In fact, when I learned she was on her way to the hospital, I called mom, said a prayer, and went on about my day after making the post on Facebook for more prayers. In the back of my mind, I thought, eh. She’ll be fine.

And then she wasn’t. She was gone. And I screamed at God. It’s not fair. It’s not right. How could He? What more can He take from our family? How much more pain does He want us to endure? And when I stopped screaming (in the parking lot of Starbuck’s I might add… a place I visit often), I cried.

And the tears continue, even as I write this. There is sadness that I will not be able to return for the memorial, coupled with the fact that I will be attending another service this weekend for a friend who lost her fight against cancer. To say this is going to be a rough weekend is an understatement.

But here’s why this post is titled “Everything Changes”. Because what mattered to me most on Wednesday morning was not what mattered on Wednesday night. The things I feared when I went to bed on Tuesday were minor compared to what I feared when I woke up on Thursday. Twenty-four hours was all it took for me to realign what’s really important. And there’s something freeing in that realization.

I got a chance to take an inventory of the mountain tall pile of blessings that are in my life and give thanks for them. To hug my kids and tickle them until they can’t breathe, only to smoother their faces with kisses as the giggles subside. To welcome my husband home after he gives his time to provide for our family. We may never have a dream house. But no matter where we are, we will always be home. And I have another chance to reconnect with the people who mean the most to me: my family and friends. To reach out and ask how they are instead of scanning Facebook posts and making assumptions. And I get to follow my passion of writing, regardless of an agent’s rejection or a bad critique. And that’s what really matters to me.

Everything changed when Becca died. Nothing will bring her back, but I hope others will take to heart that life if fleeting. We have only so much time to fulfill our dreams. It’s easy to get caught up in the drama at the office or on the playground. It’s easy to get lost in our own ambitions without regard to the people we’re taking out on the way up the ladder. It’s easy to think there will always be tomorrow. For me, what has changed is that today is the new tomorrow. No more putting off going to the gym. No more wasting time when I should be working on a book because I’m afraid someone won’t like it. No more waiting for something good to happen when I can make it happen.

Perhaps there is some irony in the fact that my latest novel is about a girl who dies and is given one last chance to change her life… to make it better. It seems only right to dedicate it to Becca, who got it right the first time. 

Revised Partizans Query

Please feel free to take a look at this and let me know what you think!

Query:

When sixteen-year-old Hannah Slaughtery enrolls in an exclusive boarding school, all she wants is to get into an Ivy League school and finally shed her bullied past. The last think she wants is to stand out. And she definitely doesn’t want to become a witch and fight against monsters she doesn’t believe in.

After an aerial assault by mythical basilisks, Hannah discovers she’s part of the next generation of Partizans, a band of supernatural warriors whose origins date back to the dawn of man.  In order to stand against the Formorians, a ruthless and tyrannical empire of demons, Hannah must make a choice: Either refuse her calling and enter into a supernatural witness protection program to save her adopted family or overcome her fear and accept her battle-filled legacy.

Regardless of her decision, there’s one thing Hannah knows for sure: her chances of surviving until prom are pretty slim.

The Partizans, a YA paranormal is complete at 74,000 words and has series potential and would appeal to fans of the Hex Hall series. Thank you for your consideration and I look forward to hearing from you.

First 150 Words:

Hannah Slaughtery’s courage faltered as the iron gate creaked open. The late afternoon sunlight filtered through the snow-topped pine trees as she steered her car through the fence, the only thing separating Piaculum Academy from the rest of the world. As she inched forward, something in the air sent a shiver down her spine. It was as if the wind was charged with bursts of electricity and her skin tingled from the connection.  She couldn’t explain why, but for the first time in her life, Hannah realized she felt safe. No. She felt like she was coming home.

Up ahead was a security checkpoint with tinted windows. As she pulled up to the window, a guard with a military haircut and aviator sunglasses opened the window and Hannah thought she caught a whiff of coconut sunscreen, which struck her as odd seeing as how it was early January.

Reflections on the Eleventh Anniversary of 9/11

759.45 miles away. That’s where I was when the world stopped turning.

It was my first year of grad school at Indiana University, where I was enrolled in the Higher Education and Student Affairs Program. My husband, though he was my boyfriend at the time, called and told me to turn on the TV. When I told him I was still in bed and grumbled something about another five minutes, he told me about a plane flying into the World Trade Center Tower. I thought he was joking. And it wasn’t very funny. But the alternative… the reality, if you will, was inconceivable.

I turned on the television and sat silent on the phone, watching the smoke billowing out of the building. I prayed for the people trapped on the upper floors and jammed in the stairwells. And yet pride swelled as the reports of police and firefighters charging into the building began to emerge. At that moment, I was still innocent. Surely, this was a horrible, cataclysmic accident, but it was still, “just” an accident.

And then I saw it. Coming in from right side of the frame was another plane. If an inanimate object can possess human like features, this one flew with purpose. To kill. To destroy. To instill terror. It was successful. I was innocent no longer. There was no way, in my mind, that this was an accident. My thoughts were echoed by the reporters, though at the time, all I heard was my voice repeating over and over again, “Oh my God. Oh my God. All those people.” I was shaking and like so many, tears were flooding down my face.

I reluctantly hung up the phone and threw on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt and headed to class. I didn’t know what else to do. There weren’t a lot of people in the quad. But my entire cohort was present and accounted for. I should mention that HESA is one of those touchy, feely, tell us about your problems kind of programs. So we talked about what we were thinking… for about five minutes and then we left. Many of my friends had assistantships working with the students, mostly in Residential Life. I should mention that, for a school in the Midwest, IU has a huge contingent of student from the state of New York. In fact, the Orientation Program packs up every year and sets up shop in the Big Apple, so it’s safe to say that our campus did not escape this attack untouched.

But I worked in research, so I took the day off, went back to my room, changed, and headed over to Wright Quad where I met up with a friend. One thing that stands out about that day is the sound of the campus. There was no laughter. No birds sang a sweet melody. It was as if sound had ceased to exist and the silence was deafening to my ears.

Fast forward four years later.

Eight months into my pregnancy, I can’t wait to have an October baby. I imaged costume themed birthday parties and crazy decorations. But on September 11, 2005, I sat straight up out of a dead sleep. A moment later, my water broke. We went to the hospital and sure enough, this little creature that I had spent more than a year trying to have and 8 months doing everything I could to protect it, was on his way. 

After one particularly horrid contraction, the nurse leaned in and asked, “Does it bother you that your baby will be born on September 11^th?” At first, I looked at her in confusion. The first epidural hadn't worked and I was trying to get up the courage to bribe the doctor to do a C-Section, so I have to admit,  my mind wasn't focusing on the date.  But she raised an interesting question everyone else had been avoiding.

My response was, “No. It doesn’t. Because my child, and all the children who have been born since that day are proof they didn't win.” I’m sure I would have said more if not for another contraction.

My son was born the next day, and I have to admit, I was relieved he wouldn’t share the anniversary, and thought occurred to me: His birthday is still momentous. September 12, 2001 was the day the United States of America stood up, dusted itself off and stood with resolve that we would be united. We would stand tall and we would take care of each other.

Fast forward seven years later.

Our country is no longer united. The sense of fellowship is being challenged by the sense of entitlement. We are a better nation than our behavior reflects.

Tomorrow, my little preemie will turn seven. He is still proof that the terrorists did not win. He’s is joyful and happy and innocent. And though I know he too is better than his behavior reflects, especially when dealing with his little brother, he loves with his whole being. There is such goodness in his heart and true compassion in his eyes. He is just one example of what makes this nation great.

A few years ago, we started a tradition of take a birthday cake to local first responder stations in our town as a way to remember and honor those who run into danger while everyone else is fleeing from it. This was his idea and, next to the presents, I think it’s his favorite part of his birthday. Tomorrow we are taking treats to the men and women of the Greenfield Police Department and he was concerned that there might not be any cupcakes for the men and women working the night shift if we took them in before school. So we are making three deliveries: one before school, one after school and I’ll drop some off after shift change.

Today, as we remember, I challenge each of you to think of something you can do to help our country unify behind the greatness we are capable. And as always, BE PASSIONATE about the ones you love. We never know when our fragile time on this earth is up.

So, where were you when the world stopped turning? And more importantly, how has 9/11 made you a better person? If you don't have an answer, what can you do, starting now, to have a response next year?