Monday, April 29, 2013
Which Cover Do You Like Best?
Keep in mind this is a sequel to Stealing Mercy, set in 1889. I love this one, but I wonder if I'll get comments about the missing corset.
In this one, Rita is properly dress, but she lacks the drama. And this is a very dramatic book. It's about an actress, after all.
My New Books
Here’s a sneak peek at my latest project. Gemma is book one
of the time capsule series. I’ll do the research for Tessa, book three (I know,
the banner is wrong) this summer when I visit Asia. Book two, Deidre’s Decision,
which as of yet doesn’t have a cover, is a rewrite of my very first completed
novel, Rosie’s Cafe. So that’s scary. Book four, Maisie’s Shell Charm, will be
a rewrite of a novel I wrote about four years ago.
I’m tinkering with the idea of waiting until all four books
are finished before I publish them (one at a time, a month apart.) That way, if
I get a brilliant idea in book three I can go back and fix the previous books.
I’m also wondering if it’s not a better marketing strategy than making readers
wait for very long for the next book, although these books can all stand alone.
I’m writing, thinking and wondering if I need a degree in marketing.
My newest to be released, Rescuing Rita, novella and sequel
to Stealing Mercy, is currently with my editor.
Friday, April 19, 2013
Friday Writer's Forum, Narrative Hooks
Definition: a literary device used at the very beginning
of a story to engage the reader's curiosity
From Dictionary.com
A story is a promise. As writers, we make a promise
to our readers at the beginning of a story. How well we keep our promise
depends on how well we tell the story. This promise is also called a narrative
hook. Numerous hooks can be found throughout a good story, but they are most
common at the end of chapters and ideally they should be found in the first
sentence or two of any story.
Not unlike the topic sentences of our school day
essays, the first sentence shoulders a heavy burden. It needs to make a promise
and reflect the over-all tone and theme of the story.
Here are several of my favorite first sentences (no
surprise that they are all my own.)
New
York City’s night noises seeped through the wall chinks and window: the jingle
of horse harnesses, the stomping of hooves, the mournful howl of a dog, but one
noise, a noise that didn't belong, jarred Mercy awake.
(Stealing Mercy, Kristy Tate) This sentence promises
danger and suspense. We also know that this is a plot driven novel with a
historical setting.
Penny
loved Richard and she adored Rose, but her feelings toward pralines and cream
were mediocre at best. She didn’t want to look like a giant pralines and cream
ice cream cone on Rose’s wedding day.
(Losing Penny, Kristy Tate) This sentence tells us that
unlike Stealing Mercy, this is a character driven story and this particular
character has weight issues and a sense of humor.
“A
lemon that’s been squeezed too many times ends up in the compost pile…” I
started out strong, but my words faded away when I noticed Savannah Everett’s
father staring at me. He stood beside a cart filled with vegetables, grinning,
as if he had caught me in my lie.
(Hailey’s Comments, Kristy Tate) What do we learn? Our
main character is living a lie and some grinning man has discovered it.
Think of your own favorite first sentences. Notice how all promise a different reading experience. Think of the first sentence as a movie trailer. If we see a trailer with Tom Cruise carrying a gun--things had better blow up and if they don't, as a movie goer, we're going to be mad.
It
was the best of times, it was the worst of times,
(A Tale of Two Cities, Dickens)
I
began these pages for myself, in order to think out my own particular patterns
of living, (Gifts from the Sea, Lindberg)
It
is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good
fortune, must be in want of a wife. (Pride and Prejudice, Austin)
It
was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.
(1981, Orwell)
There
was a boy called Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and he almost deserved it.
(C.S. Lewis, The Voyage of the Dawn
Treader)
I put my own sentences cheek with Austin and Lewis, not because I feel that my work is in anyway comparable, but because I can freely talk about my own writerly intentions. I wouldn’t dare to presume to know the thoughts or intents of the literary great…all I can say is they wrote darn good sentences—first and otherwise.
I put my own sentences cheek with Austin and Lewis, not because I feel that my work is in anyway comparable, but because I can freely talk about my own writerly intentions. I wouldn’t dare to presume to know the thoughts or intents of the literary great…all I can say is they wrote darn good sentences—first and otherwise.
If you have a first sentence you’d like
to share, please leave it in the comment box, along with your title and name
(just in case we’re so intrigued with your story promise that we want to rush out
and buy it.)
Thursday, April 18, 2013
Brave
I love this song. I wish I could memorize it, have my children memorize it and then we could all live it. Honestly. Words are so powerful. They can change lives. That means that those of us who spend our days with words, speaking or writing, are much more powerful than we probably realize.
I plan on starting a Friday Writer's Forum--writing activities that anyone can participate in, or not. It will be just here on Fridays, waiting for anyone who wants to join in. Tomorrow I'll be talking about hooks of the first paragraph sort. Stay tuned.
Until then, stay brave.
You can be amazing
You can turn a phrase into a weapon or a drug
You can be the outcast
Or be the backlash of somebody’s lack of love
Or you can start speaking up
Nothing’s gonna hurt you the way that words do
And they settle ‘neath your skin
Kept on the inside and no sunlight
Sometimes a shadow wins
But I wonder what would happen if you
Say what you wanna say
And let the words fall out
Honestly I wanna see you be brave
I wanna see you be brave
Everybody’s been there, everybody’s been stared down
By the enemy
Fallen for the fear and done some disappearing
Bow down to the mighty
Don’t run, stop holding your tongue
Maybe there’s a way out of the cage where you live
Maybe one of these days you can let the light in
Show me how big your brave is
Say what you wanna say
And let the words fall out
Honestly I wanna see you be brave
Innocence, your history of silence
Won’t do you any good
Did you think it would?
Let your words be anything but empty
Why don’t you tell them the truth?
Say what you wanna say
And let the words fall out
Honestly I wanna see you be brave
With what you want to say
And let the words fall out
Honestly I wanna see you be brave
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Hanging With Heroes
What’s
the best part about writing? Creating new worlds? Plotting twists and turns? Summoning my inner ee cummings? Playing God with a cast of characters of my own creation?
Getting to stay at home in my jammies while the rest of the world scurries
around me with to-do-lists? Yes, yes, yes and sometimes. But for me, the very best
part of writing is hanging with my heroes.
I
know. Embarrassing to hear from a (young) grandma. But I find that for me a
story really doesn’t find its legs (or chest or whatever) until I have
sufficiently fallen for my hero. Hard. It’s not always easy. I first introduced
the bad boyfriend, Drake, in The Rhyme’s Library years before I decided to make
him the hero of Losing Penny. Since when I started Losing Penny, Drake, Blair,
Aunt Charlotte and the rest where residing in a dark desk drawer, I had to resurrect
them and help Drake clean up his act…a little. My daughter, who read the books
in the order they were published, rather than in the order they were originally
written, admitted that it was hard for her to like Drake at first. Which is
what I intended. I didn’t want him to be the Hollywood hero cliché. And he’s
not. But I still love him.
Romance
writers in my writing group complain that my heroes are too real. They bake
bread, cut hair, and raise vegetables. They like children and play with dogs.
They’re witty…they have to be witty.
Who
are your favorite heroes? Gregory Peck as Atticus Fitch? Clark Gable as Rhett
Butler? Cary Grant in North by Northwest? So many men…I have to fall in love with my heroes. Because that’s the very best
part of being a writer.
I
just noticed something. All of these heroes have my husband's coloring, height
and build. Go figure. Since all of these movies were made before I was born,
then it stands to reason that I loved these men even before I met my husband.
How sad for my family if I had fallen for a beach blond surfer dude. But I
don't think that would have happened. I think I knew from the very beginning,
even as a young girl watching old movies, that I knew exactly what I was
looking for.
This is a picture of my husband taken at my very first book signing.
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Making Time to Write Verses Taking Time to Live
Last
week was spring break and my daughters had the opportunity to travel to New
York with their choir. I thought I would use the week to write. And I did. Some.
Maybe not as much as I had thought because I was invited to the beach and that
took all day and on another day I went to lunch and that was too much fun to hurry
through...and so it went. But no matter, here is another week. The girls are in the
thick of play rehearsal, so even though they sleep, they do little else and my
husband is away on a business trip—my life is one big empty slate. But on
Monday morning my daughter has a dental appointment and she didn’t go to
school until it was over (3:00—for play rehearsal.) No problem. I promised myself
that I would write in the evening. No one would be home. So I take a quick trip
to the mall…something that I never do. I come home with dinner from Paradise
Bakery thinking that I’ll have hours and hours of a quiet house perfect for
writing and dinner from Paradise
Bakery. My oldest son, the attorney, who is never
home, walks in. He had to pay his taxes. And he had questions.
Today my house is quiet. I wrote until I don’t want to write anymore. Know
why? Because yesterday's tragedy in Boston made me rethink how I balance my life and my writing. My husband and I ran a marathon once. It took me more than five hours, but it took my husband almost exactly four. Which means that if he had been in Boston yesterday, he would have been there for the blast.
And
I think that maybe sometimes, maybe most times, what we do isn’t nearly as important as who
we happen to be standing beside.
There will always be time for writing and life will always (if we're lucky) get in the way.
Friday, April 12, 2013
Doubts and Fears
Last
night I was plagued with nightmares. I don’t know why. I’m blaming it on the
chocolate bunny I ate. That way, if I ever come across another chocolate bunny begging for consumption, I’ll remember my night of terror and abstain. In reality the
bunny probably had nothing to do with my series of scary dreams, but it seems
like an effective dieting ploy and I’m going with it.
The
other day I came home after being gone for several hours, let the dog in the
house and went upstairs. Grendal, my dog, followed. At this point, things turned
strange. Grendal, usually mild mannered, became a lunatic. She was sure there
was an intruder/creature/monster in Miranda’s room. Having read more than my
fair share of murder mysteries, I armed myself with one of my husband’s crutches
(to keep the unseen fiend at bay) and a can of aerosol hairspray (to blind fiend.) Grendal and I entered the room. I slowly circled, hairspray aloft and
crutch extended, while Grendal continued her Schnauzer gone crazy yipping. I
refused to look under the bed or in the closet or leave the house. I closed the
door, tied Grendal up next to the door, so should the intruder/creature/monster
be silly enough to leave via the hall the dog would sound an alarm, and I took
my computer to the furthest corner of the house and sat down to write. After a
few minutes I forgot the intruder/creature/monster.
This is a parable to real life and especially to the life of the artist. When
we are afraid, we’re a lot like Grendal—barking for little reason, making ourselves crazy with doubt—and eventually someone, usually ourselves, will tie us up
until we can be sane. It's so easy to get tied up in our fears and our doubts. And the justifications of stepping away from our art are legion--I'm not any good, the critics are mean, I'm wasting my time and money, that one star review really hurt, I should become a nurse, trash collector, teacher, janitor and engage in something that makes a contribution to the world.
We read about this in Frances Hodgson Burnett’s classic,
The Secret Garden. (If you aren’t familiar with this story, then you need to
stop reading my blog and go and read everything by Frances Hodgson Burnett.)
“So
long as Colin shut himself up in his room and thought only of his fears and
weakness and his detestation of people who looked at him and reflected hourly
on humps and early death, he was a hysterical half-crazy little hypochondriac
who knew nothing of the sunshine and the spring and also did not know that he
could get well and could stand upon his feet if he tried to do it. When new
beautiful thoughts began to push out the old hideous ones, life began to come
back to him, his blood ran healthily through his veins and strength poured into
him like a flood. … Much more surprising things can happen to anyone who, when
a disagreeable or discouraged thought comes into his mind, just has sense to
remember in time to push it out by putting in an agreeable determinedly
courageous one. Two things cannot be in one place.
‘Where
you tend a rose, my lad,
A
thistle cannot grow.’”
If we (I) continue to nurture our (my) fears and doubts, books won't be written and we'll become like Colin a hysterical half-crazy little hypochondriac, or maybe just a chocolate eating bunny person prone to nightmares.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Gemma Goes to Hollywood
I'm posting an excerpt of my new book, tentatively titled, Gemma goes to Hollywood. It's the first in a series about four friends, recently graduated from high school who bury a time capsule stating their hopes and dreams for the next four years. Each book will tell how their hopes are (somewhat) realized.
Gemma shivered when Maisie pulled open the doors, not because of the cold breeze that blew into the hot and crowded gym, but because she expected an alarm to sound—if not the actual fire alarm—which was a distinct possibility—but the dreaded Mom alarm. That alarm that had no sound, was less visible and harder to trace than radar and yet, was more powerful than any force known to man…or to at least to Gemma.
Gemma shivered when Maisie pulled open the doors, not because of the cold breeze that blew into the hot and crowded gym, but because she expected an alarm to sound—if not the actual fire alarm—which was a distinct possibility—but the dreaded Mom alarm. That alarm that had no sound, was less visible and harder to trace than radar and yet, was more powerful than any force known to man…or to at least to Gemma.
She cast a worried glance in the corner where she had
last seen her mother. Couples swayed on the dance floor beneath sparkling
lights. Some students, although Gemma supposed she could now call them—and
herself—alumni, after all they had just graduated, hovered around the
refreshment table, guzzling lemonade and munching on the cookies. Gemma spotted
her mother. Maggs was busy with Marissa Lyon, a busty girl in a spaghetti strap
dress who had snapped a strap. Marissa would keep her mother occupied with
safety pins and if Gemma was lucky—and Marissa unlucky—a lecture on modesty,
vanity clothing and the general ineptitude of spaghetti straps.
Having
her mom in her orbit usually made Gemma want to crawl under the bleachers, but
Maisie tugged on her hand pulled her through the high school gym doors. She
sent her mother one more worried glance and met the gaze of Mr. Harmon, the
hottest biology teacher to tease the girls of Twain High. It was painful enough
to have to listen to a lecture on the reproductive cycle while being surrounded
by sniggering football players but to have Mr. Harmon deliver said lecture made
Gemma’s insides twist in uncomfortable knots. Hormonal for Harmon, Deidre
called it—referring her own seventh period perpetual pink cheeks. Mr. Harmon
saw them leave. Would he tell her mom? Gemma swallowed and followed Maisie.
Up ahead, Deidre and Tessa ran through the moonlight,
their shoes dangling from their fingers. Gemma and Maisie hurried to catch up,
tripping across the black top, stepping over where they had once played
hopscotch and passing the jungle gym, affectionately called the “big toy.”
Gemma had to fight back a wave of nostalgia when Deidre
and Tess disappeared behind Fred, the tree where they had spent every recess
and every lunch break since first grade. She couldn’t remember who had first
named the tree—or why—but they had been saying “meet me at Fred” for more than
twelve years. Tonight could possibly be the second to the last time they would
meet at Fred.
A wind picked up and a shiver ran down Gemma’s spine. She
looked at her friends and tried to return their smiles –she wouldn’t let envy
spoil their last night at Twain High together. She loved her friends. She
wanted them to have shiny, bright futures…she just wished that her own had more
sparkle and less dirty diapers.
“Hurry!” Tessa called/whispered.
Deidre held up her hands like a police man conducting
traffic and Gemma and Maisie both stopped.
“No,” Deidre used her normal speaking voice. “A time
capsule cannot be hurried.”
“What if we’re caught?” Tessa asked, bravely raising her
voice to almost audible.
Gemma thought about mentioning Mr. Harmon, but she
didn’t. If they were caught, they were caught. “What can they do? Expel
us—after we have already graduated?”
She wasn’t as nearly as worried about Mr. Harmon as she
was about her own mother, but she agreed with Deidre. Something as important as
a time capsule shouldn’t be hurried.
Deidre picked up the mason jar they had previously hidden
in the patch of honeysuckle that grew around Fred’s trunk and shook out four
pens. “Be very careful, your futures are at stake.”
Gemma accepted the pen and slip of paper and sat down on
the stone ledge. Writing something down made it real. It also made it
traceable. And accountable. She had learned that the hard way back in seventh
grade when Mrs. Bartlett confiscated the note she had written to Tessa during
biology. She shot Tessa a glance; it was so hard to believe that Tessa, who had
always been so scrawny and small, had grown up to look like Twiggy, but with
boobs.
Tessa
sat hunched over her paper, the pen sticking out of her mouth and her lips
turned down. Gemma wondered what Tessa was worried about—her future lay before
her like a golden carpet. Gemma elbowed Tessa. “Go ahead, write it down, Mrs.
Teresa Donnelly.”
Tessa
flushed pink, the color spreading over cheeks.
“Mrs.
Jackson Donnelly—” Deidre began.
“Travels
to China,” Tessa finished, putting her pen to paper.
“You’re
writing that down?” Maisie asked.
“The
China part—not the Mrs. Donnelly part,” Tessa said.
“Better
not tell Jackson,” Maisie said.
“Of
course I’m going to marry Jackson.” Tessa flipped her long golden hair over her
shoulder. “Just not yet. He has to finish law school and I…have things I want
to do.”
“What
things?” Deidre asked. “You never mentioned things before.”
“Things
like traveling to China.” Tessa straightened her spine.
“I
can see you picking out China…but going to China?” Maisie shook her head.
“Why
not?” Tessa wrote down China again, but this time in big capital letters. “I
want to make a difference—help people.”
“In
China?”
“Well—what
are you writing down?” Tessa looked over at Maisie’s blank paper.
“Hot,
steamy romance,” Maisie said slowly as she wrote down the three words.
Gemma
laughed. “That doesn’t sound like you.”
“Why
not?” Maisie borrowed Tessa’s phrase.
“Hot,
stinking baseball cleats sounds like you,” Gemma told her, ignoring her own
blank piece of paper.
“Baseball
players are hot—that’s why kissing is called first base and not first in ten.”
Gemma
didn’t want to argue sports sex definitions so she lifted her shoulder and
hunched over her paper. She didn’t have anything to write. In fact, she didn’t
have anything to look forward to except a life sentence of babysitting. All of
her friends had a future waiting for them and Gemma had her mom pacing in the
gym, wondering where her daughter was and how long she managed to get out from
under her thumb. Gemma twisted her lips and looked over at Deidre’s paper.
“I
don’t have anything to write,” Deidre admitted. “I’ve been thinking about it
all day.”
“What
about the Cordon Bleu?” Gemma asked.
“That’s
boring.”
“But
tasty.” Gemma looked down at her own blank piece of paper. Nothing was as
boring as staying in Twain, so she wrote down, “Hollywood.”
Deidre
lifted the corners of her mouth. “You can’t just write down Hollywood. We can
go to Hollywood in an afternoon.”
Gemma
bit her lip and wrote down, “Dylan Florence.”
Maisie
raised her eyebrows. “Your future is Dylan Florence?”
“And
Hollywood.” Gemma copied her mother’s holier than thou tone. “Hey, if you can
have a hot and steamy romance, I can Dylan Florence.”
Tessa
lowered her pen. “This is supposed to be serious.”
“I
am serious. I’m seriously in love with Dylan Florence.”
“Whom
you have never, and most likely, never will, meet.”
Gemma
tried to will the secret away, but it sat at the edge of her lips, bursting to
be said out loud. It killed her that she couldn’t tell her friends that Dylan
Florence was actually much closer than Hollywood—which really wasn’t so far
away, either—but her parents would kill her if she shared. She pressed her lips
together, took a deep breath and said, “It’s a very one side and one
dimensional sort of relationship.”
Tessa
nodded. “Sometimes those are the best kind.”
Gemma
stared at her paper. She was serious. She would spend the rest of her life
watching Dylan Florence on TV, even though he was almost within kissing
distance, and occasionally driving into Hollywood whenever her grandfather snapped
his fingers. Deidre would go to cooking school, Maisie would go to UCI on an
athletic scholarship, and Tessa would shop for China with Jackson. If her
friends could have futures—then it was only fair that she could have Dylan
Florence.
Even
if she had to share him with millions of fans.
Deidre
searched the honeysuckle until she found the trowel they had hid with the Mason
jar. She held up the garden tool like a scepter. “Remember, by writing down our
dreams, we’ve made them real. We have sent our predictions into the Universe. What
we visualize we will realize.”
Gemma
imagined Dylan Florence like a hologram, wavering before her eyes. Folding her
slip of paper, she put it in the jar and imagined Dylan Florence, as tangible
as the smoke of a magic genie, floating into the jar as well. She watched her
friends place their futures into the jar. Tessa kissed her paper before she
dropped it in. Deidre held the jar up so it caught a ray of moonlight. An
unfamiliar wave of reverence swept over Gemma as Deidre handed the trowel to
Maisie.
After
a moment of digging, Maisie stood. “It’s finished.”
The
girls stared at the hole next to Fred, it looked like a tiny grave. Gemma
wanted to be happy, but she felt like she was burying all her hopes and dreams,
even though she hadn’t even written down her real dreams. She’d been mocking,
joking—making light of her dim future.
Deidre
placed the jar in the hole and Maisie tapped the dirt back in place. Tessa
rearranged the honeysuckle so that no one would even be able to tell that they
had ever even been there.
“Until
2020,” Deidre said.
“2020,”
the girls echoed.
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