Category Archives: News

2015. It’s more than just the square root of 4,060,225.

Magic 8 ball says: My sources say no

Well how else do you make decisions? Magic 8 Ball says: My sources say no.

So I was reflecting on the year to come and contemplating how to fit it all in. I had paralyzing fear penciled in for the first few months, followed by a six-week self-pity retreat, and I was keeping the summer open for raging self-doubt.

And then I thought: No.

Oh my dearies.

It’s not just that I’ve been keeping secrets from you. Turns out I spend most of my time tharn in the middle of life’s headlights. But enough of that sorry behavior.

Galley copy of HitList

View from the desktop with a galley copy of HitList

This year, I’m going to tell all: about my dream-date query experience with HitList, what Random House said about my book and about those next two novels in the queue.

Look for juicy tell-all posts, good advice on badass queries and how to make agents fight over you. Plus, tips on how to blow it all because you’re going through an ugly divorce.

What’s after that? Who knows. Maybe I’ll even update my Facebook status.

Here’s hoping you are in the midst of your own brave plans for 2015.

The Forehead-Smacking Moment I Figured Out NaNoWriMo

There are two kinds of writers in the world: those that do NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) and rise to the challenge of producing 50,000 words in November, and writers that spend the month coming up with excuses why this is not sensible, practical, rational or useful.

I’ve always been in the latter camp.

I mean sure, I could write 50,000 words in a month. But who wants to read a book composed of “The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog” repeated 5,555 times?

Then, the Beast showed up. “Best Friends for Never,” he said in a phlegmy whisper.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ll write it. Someday. Like when it’s warmer. When the bills are caught up. I’ll take some vacation time—next year maybe. When I’m caught up on my sleep. And laundry. Better yet, when my youngest is out of elementary school and I don’t have to haul my oldest to band practice at 6:30 am. Or when I’m retired.

“Write it now,” he said. He let out a stale stream of cigarette smoke and flicked some ashes on the rug.

“I don’t even know what happens. I mean it’s just an idea.”

“Write.”

Fine.

I was late out of the gate, starting on November 5th. For a few days, I juggled 400 words at a pop and questioned the point. And then: BOOM.

I got it. I got what NaNoWriMo is really about. And no, it’s not a contest. And no, it’s not about discipline and it’s most certainly not about perfection. It’s about opening the door wide. And in the process of opening that door, you need to slam your inner critic hard against the other wall. (Mine left a long lipstick streak down the door jamb before she fell unconscious.)

And when that door is open, well that is when the story happens.

As of today, I’ve got 20,000 words. And while it it’s pretty unlikely I’ll win NaNoWriMo this year, I have to say I’ve already won. I’ve got a story that’s making me breathless and I can’t wait to finish it. And the fact I won’t get done by November 30th isn’t because it’s not there—it’s because there’s not just enough time. So when November goes and December comes, I expect to be still happily click-clacking away on Best Friends for Never.

Congratulations to all of those who have completed NaNoWriMo and to any and all that have taken the challenge. Best of luck in taking your novel to the next step. And to those writers who always put entering NaNoWriMo right up there with pushing a shopping cart to the top of Mount Everest, consider this: what have you got to lose?

Attack of the Nefarious Google Beast

googlemapI like maps, planned destinations, hotel reservations, heated pools and chocolate croissants. I like research and travel books and poring over online reviews and intimate knowledge of space and place before I get there. And yet somehow the best part of the journey is always the unplanned detour or the unexpected stop. It’s there I find the ultimate souvenir, the perfect picture or the barbecue ribs worth dying for.

When I got the idea for HitList, it wasn’t so much that I found it, as it found me. I was just merrying along, writing my Well-Planned Book (about something else entirely), when The Beast (aka HitList) came, knocked me across the teeth and took over my brain.

I was helpless to stop. I knew it derailed me, but there was something so compelling about it—I couldn’t look away. Each word made me eager for the next. I couldn’t stop writing—I had to find out what happened. And this experience showed me that while there are intentions, plans and plots, there is the thrill of riding the story and letting it take you. Amazingly, by the time The Beast left, I had a book–a better book than the one I’d planned.

So, I was not completely surprised when some innocent and well-intended research on my googlemap streetviewcurrent WIP turned into something else. The Nefarious Google Beast blindsided me and dragged me into an alley, where it threw me in the trunk of a waiting car. I was just sitting there, staring at something on Google maps and one thought led to another, which led to a sentence, and turned into a page and I’m starting to wonder if there might be a book attached.

It may only be a short story, it could be a meandering diversion down the rabbit hole and back, but right now I simply can’t wait to get to the next sentence. Oh, what next? What next? Where are you taking me, Nefarious Google Beast?

I may end up miles away next week with nothing to show for it but a short story and a tattoo I don’t remember getting, but heck…I think I’m gonna go along for the ride.

Ding Dong, The Beast is Gone

After more than a year of pushing words around, I’m happy to announce the second draft of HitList is done.

What does this mean? For starters, I can clear the litter of scribbled notes off my desk, take the kids kite flying and when we’re back, get busy trying to find the bottom of the laundry basket.

What’s next? Final feedback, and then the dreaded query and synopsis. IF and when I’m ready to face the trauma of shopping it around. Maybe I’ll blog more . . . mwah ha ha . . . you’ve been warned.

Another book? Ack–bite your tongue. If I could manage to keep things in proper perspective, I might be okay. But The Beast has no respect for me, my full-time job, OR my family. He yanks the covers off  at 4:00 am and drags me out of bed by one ankle. He snaps at my daughter when she wakes up at 6:30, blissfully ignores my son and would leave me hunched at the computer until I was nothing but a pile of flab and bones. He intrudes at every family outing and even barges in on me in the shower. I hope to avoid this, for awhile at least.

I need a tidy hobby, a rewarding one that minds my privacy and respects my need for sleep. Maybe running. Or photography. Like perhaps I could produce calendars . . . something like Sexy Firemen or Hot Hunks of Law Enforcement.

Now that’s something to aspire to.

My Latest Mistake

Under the category of “Random” and “Stupid Things I Do”, I offer…

Emma:

“Ocean” was her shelter handle. When we busted her out, we named her Emma.

She’s part Christmas Ornament Snatcher, part Guatemalan Pillow Eater, part mistake. Up until last Friday, she was incarcerated the local humane shelter. The reason for this is now clear to me.

Don’t get me wrong, I love her. She’s affectionate, smart and outwardly well-behaved. She’s not a barker, biter or jumper. What’s more, this is a dog who seemed to know nothing of sitting, fetching or loose-leash-walking five days ago, who has now mastered all of the above and then some. Heck, the girl had her name down in the first fifteen minutes. Her gift for putting things together astounds me.

She’s whipped us all into shape, herding the kids off to bed or baths and she keeps me fit with sixty-minute home-disaster-recovery-sessions every afternoon. She’s even reached a respectful truce with the cat.

But the girl is just so wily. Her paperwork says part Lab, part Husky. But I watch her… and I think part coyote. I see how she waits until the instant I leave the room to jump on the dining room table. I appreciate the timing and skill it takes to pluck ornaments off the tree without getting caught. Such a clever girl…

The dog has already cost me triple her adoption fee in household damage. Add to that the lifetime supply of dog toys I bought last night to entertain her. But love makes you do crazy things, I guess.

I’ve Been Hearing the Voices Again or Thank You Chuck Palahniuk‏

I’ve been MIA. I was somewhere between writer’s block, HitList revisions and [The Next Thing], which up until Sunday was nothing but white noise. I wanted, I needed, I swore to finish HitList but instead I found myself shuffling words around the pages of my manuscript, composing imaginary emails to my editor and having mental arguments with the literary agent who gave me a lengthy, encouraging, kind-but-firm rejection letter.

LITERARY AGENT: In your book, I didn’t find the voices of your three narrators sufficiently distinct.

ME: But they are. I can prove it to you. I Write Like says so. Ahem. Well at least two-thirds of the time it does.

YOU: Okay… Well. Whatever. But what does this have to do with Chuck Palahniuk?

The website—I Write Like. They have an online form that matches your word choice and writing style with famous authors. I clicked-dragged-copied-dropped each and every chapter from HitList into it, to see which author each character sounded like. And for whatever reason, one protagonist continually came up as Chuck Palahniuk.

I’d never read his books and if you’re a fan, I apologize for this shortcoming. Here’s why: I haven’t been reading much lately. Not since I started writing. Well, since I had kids. Okay, okay, I haven’t been reading at all—but it makes me feel terminally insecure and what can I say, I’ve been occupied watching my daughter’s Pocahontas DVD for the past three years.

But Sunday I went out and bought Damned, just to hear Mr. Palahniuk’s voice. And let me say that while I don’t possess the man’s biting wit, delicious timing, full-throttle-rhythm or a fraction of his talent–if you put that aside for a second–I can write exactly like him. Well… we both write in English.

What I didn’t expect to happen was that reading his book would be mental Drano, creative WD-40, effectively pulling a thumb from the dike of my imagination. They started talking again—my narrators. They had a lot to say and there were more voices, and more stories too, so much so that I can’t possibly keep up. But despite the chaos of all that chatter, I now have the clarity I need: I know what I must do to put the final tweaks and polish on HitList.

I can’t say what it was about the book that did it for me. Damned has little in common with HitList, aside from a rainbow spectrum of messed-up teenagers. Maybe it was the book, or his protagonist, or perhaps it was only the unapologetic sound of Chuck Palahniuk’s voice. So, if you’re face-down in a stagnant pool of creativity, or hopelessly bogged in a mire of revision, there may be other ways to unstick your stuck. Or, you could always try Chuck.

39 Shades of Facebook

HitList has 39 references to Facebook. Why? That’s not important right now. You may or may not know, I hate Facebook.

I shouldn’t.

I need to be out there, networking, getting in touch with long-losts and keeping up to date with my friends and family.

However, even if I could get over my social media phobia, I have another problem:

Facebook is not your friend.

Facebook is like that girl you went out with once in college who showed up at your dorm the next afternoon with home-baked cookies. Facebook is like that guy who wants to go out with you, who is overly familiar with your mother and knows what you wore to church last Sunday.

Not that long ago, I purchased some earplugs online. I sleep like a baby when I have in my earplugs, but I have freakishly small ear canals and the ones at the corner drugstore just plain hurt. So I found some online and purchased them. As soon as I did, there was Facebook, standing there, grinning, wanting to know if I wanted to tell all my friends about my fine purchase and my delicate ear canals.

Meddling, nosy, intrusive. Worse than my mother (sorry Mom) because Facebook wants to shout it to the world.

But more irritating than that, Facebook wants to help me. Facebook says–I know you’re looking for curtains, maybe you’d like these. Huh? What do you think? No? Maybe these instead.

I know Facebook has to pay the bills. A business model wrapped around all of us handholding and singing Kumbaya is not going to make the shareholders happy.

But still…

When I want to go where everyone knows my name, I don’t want it to be because they want to sell me window treatments.

Sigh. I need to get over it. I’ll try.

Next: Why I hate Twitter.

What’s Next?

I’m wrapping up minor proofreading edits on HitList, aka The Beast. On August 1st I’m putting the first draft into the hands of an editor for a comprehensive critique and I’m looking forward to even more professional feedback in early September.

I’m fortunate to have some kind-but-unwittingly-hapless beta-readers volunteering to read the thing. If you’re one of them, I Love You and I’m so grateful. Ahem…and I will uh…hand it over [speaks into hand] soon. Just as soon as I–um–changemynameandmovetoPalau. Because seriously, any misconception you might enjoy about me being a nice, sweet,  marginally normal person? Finito. I’ve learned to accept that. But have you?

So on to a different subject. Have you ever been kidnapped, held hostage for months in a gritty, cheap motel, then beaten and left for dead on the side of the freeway?

Neither have I. But I imagine I might feel this very same way after coming home: blinking, stunned and a little like someone used my soul to wipe out the refrigerator in a flophouse. Lately, I can barely stumble out of bed in the morning.

I wrote two books in one year while working full-time and doing the mom-thing. Maybe it’s only that it’s caught up with me.

I physically write during a small window of time each day–4:30 am to 6:30 am–but for the past year writing has occupied a huge portion of my time mentally and emotionally. The book was like a tattoo across my frontal lobe, ever-present, presenting a constant demand for attention just like that guy I dated in college.

The woman who teaches my writing group says as soon as you finish one project you must begin another. But I’m finding little motivation. Heck, lately the act of sitting upright in front of the laptop is a feat of will.

I could resurrect the cowboy and while that does possess a certain soothing, restorative appeal, sleeping in sounds much nicer.

If I don’t write, will it just go away? On the other hand, if I force myself to write without feeling the same all-consuming drive, what’s the point?

Writers, what do you do? Are you drained after finishing a big project? Do you jump right back in? If you ‘take a break’ from writing, is it hard to return? Does it come back?