Z is for Zenda

Z is for Zenda. Well, I had to think of something that started with Z, and it could have been Zoo, with all those animals all around, but no, it's Zenda.

When our two youngest children were little, my husband and I placed an ad in The Lady magazine in Great Britain. At that time, you could advertise for household help, and it was a great way to find well-trained nannies. Now the US has schools for this sort of thing, but at the time, we were impressed with the degree program in England, including child development and first aid, and wanted someone who wanted to spend a year or two in the States just for an experience.

It turned out to be one of the best things we've ever done. The advertisement generated some 200 applications, and we actually had a hard time choosing. We arranged a trip and interviewed our top 3 candidates, and their families. We wanted to make sure their parents were okay with where they were sending their daughters. And at that time, getting a 6-month visa wasn't difficult, if we agreed to sponsor them and take care of their health insurance.

Zenda was our first.

We came home from church one day, about 4 months after she started, and she had run off with an American guy and left us a note.

We telephoned our next in line, and she was delighted to come over, and actually stayed with us for almost 2 years. She loved American guys. I'll never forget my 4 year old son, who used to stand at the kitchen door and watch as a young man emerged from her cottage in the morning, and usually a different one each morning! "Why does Jane have so many friends? And they all are boys." Even with this, she was a loving addition to our family and we were grateful we had found her.

This was the year that Charles and Diana got married. Jane and Angela (a girl we found for another family) were deathly homesick. So we got up early, waited on them hand and foot, poured mimosas and made them a gourmet breakfast fit for a king. They sat all day on our family room couch and cried. All day. Boy did they miss England.

Watching the royal wedding this morning, I thought back to that day, and I must admit, I missed my girls, those two lovely young ladies from England who helped our families out so much. My son had started calling a sidewalk a "footpath" with an accent. Asking to go to the "loo".

I watch the pomp and circumstance, the proud heritage of this tradition going back over a thousand years, and it got me weepy too. I thought the commoners were very regal. It was moving to see the young couple. And every girls' romantic fantasy. Marrying a prince. A ceremony of a proud people. A refreshing change that I hope has touched the world.

I hope there is a happily ever after for them. I'd bet there will be. I'm grateful to spend a whole day honoring love and commitment. Couldn't be better for a romance writer, now could it?

And I hope Zenda, Jane and Angela are doing well. My one big regret is that we've lost touch.

What about you? Do you remember the other royal wedding? What did you think of this one? Did you get up early and watch?

Yes, I've Earned My Stripes Today

Forget rejection slips. Forget low scores on contests. We all work so hard to do our best, to write our best and manage our schedules as best we can. We help each other as writers, comment for each other, critique each other and encourage each other. That's what writers are supposed to do. Right?

And every single writer I've met has been this way. Coming from a competitive corporate world where I had to get my armor on, get on the telephone for three to four hours a day, cold calling and getting rejected 99% of the time, I saw the writing community as one big loving family. I could not believe how helpful and supportive everyone was. I was warned that it wasn't always that way. I was beginning to believe that the person who told me this, was wrong. "Not me," I said. "Couldn't happen to me. I'm such a nice person."

Well, I've removed the knife from my back and suddenly I can stand up straight and breathe. I got a bitter reminder today that you can't please all the people all the time. And it was naive of me to think so. **wince wince** this is part of the process. Darn it all.

Kristen Lamb has taught me more this year than perhaps any other blogger or teacher. I try not to miss a post of hers, and go through withdrawals when she's gone. Here's her address:

One of the Best Ways to Build Our Social Media Platform--Be a Blogger Booster.

http://warriorwriters.wordpress.com

About a month ago, she had a post about the sharp-edged people around us that help polish us into the diamonds we are, instead of the rough stones we start as. Her point was that no one gets to be good without being able to withstand the knives in the back, the hurtful critique or harsh judge, or a friend who proves to be something of the opposite.

Life isn't fair. Things just don't work out sometimes. Sometimes some people are toxic. So you move away. But that's it.

Nothing stops because we're having a particularly bad day. My dogs didn't care. They came up and gave me loves just like they always did. My chickens still needed to be fed and the eggs collected. The garden had to be watered, AND I HAD A GOAL OF 20 PAGES TO COMPLETE TODAY.

And I did it! I even managed to stay out of the sugar and the flour: my refuge in times of trouble!

Being a good writer means you must be easy to start and difficult to stop. Like a locomotive. You start out slow, no matter how hard you put your foot on the pedal. After the engine is revved and you are gliding down the rails, you have momentum to keep you going. You could even take your foot off the pedal, and for a time, the train would continue.

That's what I want to be: easy to start and hard to stop.

I'm proud that I stayed the course and didn't let a bump in the road ruin my day or stop me from writing. In fact, I may have found a new villain!

Tomorrow's my birthday. I feel healthy and clean, and so happy to be a writer during these challenging times. I'm going to celebrate!

How about you? Any things you think about or tips you could share about how you overcome things that could stop you?

X Marks The Spot Where Jack London Wrote

There are some places that are filled with the ghosts of the past, and I was at one today. Our eclectic multi-genre critique group meets every Tuesday morning. Today, we met at the old Grist Mill, where Jack London used to write in an apartment over the mill. We sat out on the patio and had a wonderful catered lunch by Yeti's Restaurant - Nepalese food. With the sunshine pouring over our red umbrellas and a soft breeze whispering through the trees, we read our stories, sipped tea, ate wonderful curry dishes, and felt the presence of Jack London amongst us.

These are the same windows he looked out of when he penned his best-selling books. Once an apartment, it now is the upstairs to a new restaurant re-opening soon. It would be a wonderful place to read or do an author signing.

Can't you just see London working at his table, listening to the gigantic waterwheel turning in slow rhythm, the opulent trickling of water? What a place to let one's imagination grow.

In my former life, as a Realtor, I sold a home for a relative of his, and held in my hands some of his books, probably written right here. Today was like the past and the present all coming together. All six of us hope to be best-selling authors some day. We have helped each other tremendously in this group that has been going on for almost three years. And now we have Jack.

Our critique session was over too soon, and we were off in separate directions, like leaves scattered in the parking lot. Words read, suggestions given, ideas shared, laughter and warm friendship. Everything has faded, except the sharp pangs in my stomach from the deliciously rich food I loved eating, but that haunts me tonight, just like Jack.

How about you? Do you have any special places "haunted" with dead writers or inspired by creatures otherwise? Do tell!

I'm Blogging Today about SEALS

Come join me today. I'm blogging over at Terry's Place, about SEALS and my son's journey:

http://terryodell.blogspot.com

Thanks!

Sharon

W is for Write Every Day

This is a do-over. Just a short post to remind you to write every day. I interviewed JR Ward at RWA Nationals in D.C. two years ago, and she told me she had written every day except for three in the last three plus years.

I asked her about dinners and family events, vacations. No. Everyday, she told me. And I saw that that's what it takes to be successful.

It's been said that you have to write 1,000,000 words before you start getting good, or before you can start to write. I think I believe that now. But when I was just getting started, I thought I was so brilliant, the world was my oyster!

And I still think the opportunities are there, but I'm more realistic. Talent is overrated. You must write and write and write, get rejected, and write some more. Keep writing. Write every day, and the rest will come. It's about putting it out there.

And don't wrestle with any pigs. You both get dirty, but the pig likes it!

How about you? Do you write every day? What do you do when you don't feel like it?

Vampires!

Don't go away just yet! I promise I won't bore you with vampire lore, if you're not a fan, or have gotten tired of them. I think they will be here to stay. Fact is, we've been writing about them since 300 AD. I understand early Hindu writings incorporated vampire lore. They lived in trees, caused mysterious deaths, especially to unsuspecting children and non-believers. Don't know about you, but that's more chilling to me than the ones that are dark and sexy, that heal quickly, are the strongest things on the planet (just about), and have a libido that most humans would envy.

I laugh whenever I hear the comments, "Vampires are out." Just like I laugh whenever I hear, "Angels are too controversial."

I wrote Honeymoon Bite because I had a crit partner who was writing vampires, and I decided to try it. I'd read all of Anne Rice's books, and loved them. Found them very sexy. Except their plumbing didn't work, and I just knew Anne would write some raging love scenes if she hadn't written herself and her characters into a box. Talk about unfulfilled! I learned later on that she wrote erotica under a pen name.

But what she did was bring the dark, brooding vampiric characters to life in memorable ways, and without her, I doubt the Sookies and Bellas would have been created. And now as I read Kressley Cole, Nailini Singh and Larissa Ione, their characters have become a hybrid of several species, even brothers, as in Larissa Ione's Underworld General stories, with different species, depending on their parentage. I like that about paranormal. There are so many things you can do. I have a fallen angel who was a vampire, turned into an angel by accident in the 4th book I'm working on. Why not? It gives us a good basis for why he's got a chip on his shoulder.

I'm itching to get back to the edits on this book so I can send it to my agent. But I have to finish my contemporary first, from a request.

Indulge me. Read my first few paragraphs, and ask yourself if you like this story, would you keep turning the pages, and then go ahead and post your reactions. You're not going to get a nasty comment back, even if it isn't your cup of tea...

Anne looked down on the sleeping form of her new husband and, God help her, he looked like the first man she would murder. Nestled into his arms was the naked body of her Maid of Honor.

It was the second time today the bride had caught them. First was at the reception. In the bathroom.

Monika’s dress and his tux were splayed over the chair and floor, trampled, along with a spilled bottle of champagne, cream satin shoes, a long taffeta slip, a hot pink pushup bra and Robert’s new black socks.

“Not exactly what a bride wants to see on her wedding day.” Anne spoke the chilling words in soft lilting tones, like she had recited her wedding vows that afternoon. It caused the reaction she hoped for. Monika bolted up, her eyes crossed but wide, clutching a sheet to her chest. Robert was scrambling to the floor.

“Don’t bother to put your pants on.”

“Honey—Anne—,” he said in his I’m-so-sorry-I-got-caught voice. His tanned face used to melt her insides, like when he smiled and the sun came out from behind the clouds. But today it wasn’t going to work. Everyone knew it. The bride had murder on her mind.

“I’m so glad you’re all right. We were…” Robert began.

“I’m fine. I can see how worried you were. Touching.” Amidst rustling taffeda and satin, Anne reached down to the handle of her wardrobe roller, stuffed to bursting with brand new clothes for her honeymoon, most with tags still on them. She made sure her money, passport and airline tickets were still zipped into the top pocket.

“Your dress, Anne,” Her former best friend pointed to the red stains down the front. “Is that blood?”

“Catsup.” Anne saw them both flinch. “Not blood. Not yet.”

“Now wait just a minute.” Robert climbed back into the bed and put his arms around Monika, but his body was tucked safely behind hers.

“I’m sorry about all this, Anne. I’ve been a fool.”

Monika turned around and looked at him in a drunken gaze. Maybe she was wising up already.

“No. It wasn’t going to work, you asshole. Don’t you think your timing sucked? Couldn’t you have done it before we did all this?” Anne lifted her skirts as if to curtsy. Robert relaxed and hung his head on Monika’s bare shoulder.

Anne grabbed a black rain slicker and rolled her trousseau out to the hallway. Whispers came from her bedroom. Unzipping her bag, she extracted the red and black outfit she had planned to wear on the plane—the one with the plunging neckline. Locking herself in the bathroom, she shimmied out of her bridal gown and slipped into her new things. Her feet found a comfortable home in her favorite pair of black crocs, the ones decorated by her bachelorette buddies with little bride and groom charms surrounded by red hearts.

No way.

She grabbed Robert’s toenail nippers from the vanity and snipped off both the bride and groom, but left the red hearts there. Romance wasn’t dead. But her marriage sure was.

Robert stood in the hallway in his shorts. “Where are you going?”

“On my honeymoon. I planned it. I paid for it. I’m going.”

She descended to the ground floor of her apartment building and realized her wedding gown was still draped over her left arm. A convenient row of black plastic garbage cans, out at the curb for an early morning pickup, became the gown’s final resting place. The nuclear tufts of stained and shredded white organza looked like tissue paper stuffing for a tall wedding present.

My heroine's luck goes from bad to worse, because she does get bitten on her honeymoon. And her life changes forever.

Do you like vampires? Do you like humor in those stories? Characters that find themselves in impossible situations? What do you like about vampires? Or dislike?

Understanding The Writing Business

When I first started writing, I began going to writers' group meetings, and discovered I liked happy endings. I was told I was a romance writer.

At one of my first RWA meetings, I met a new friend, Karin Tabke/Harlow, who gave me the definition of romance: "The woman always wins. There's always a Happily Ever After." No wonder I liked writing love stories. I could create a world where everything turns out the way it's supposed to.

It's a simple concept, but not so simple to execute. People have told me, "Some day I'm just going to sit down and write a romance," like it's learning a second language or something. I tell them I hope they do.

I've been learning the rules by making mistakes. A lot of them. Then I pick up a book that violates those rules. The fact is, when you're successful, you can do almost what you want. When you are trying to get published, you have to write something fresh, without breaking the rules.

Now with the self-pubbed revolution going on, there are several new ways an author can become successful. But it's trial and error as well. I've downloaded my WIP several times, had to delete it, reload it, and still not be able to get rid of certain formatting issues. I could hire those things away, I could hire artwork for the cover, hire an editor, and pretty soon I am doing a sort of quasi vanity published book I'm paying out of pocket for.

But I like one basic thing about it: the results are more in my control. True, I don't have a big marketing arm and thousands of printed copies shipped to bookstores, but that is becoming less of a factor as the ebooks become more and more popular. I can adjust my price up or down, change my cover multiple times, if I want. I can write under a pen name to try out a genre, find readers on my own, and be responsible for promoting the books, like most publishers expect authors to do anyway.

In an age when people are watching their pennies, it makes sense to come out with fiction that is cheaper, where sequels are delivered faster, and that have unique twists and turns perhaps not found in traditional-published works. I buy hard copies of books I really like in eformat. Good books are what readers buy. The readers get to decide.

No one knows where it all will shake out. But what I really like is the choice.

What about you? Do you read ebooks? What genre do you read and why?

TIME OUT. THINK BEFORE YOU HIT SEND.

Whoa Nellie. Stop clattering your sabers. Holster your sidearms. Turn off your engines. Click off the TV. Put down your beer. Freeze frame.

I'm floored with how many good writers (I put myself in both camps) can't send an email message without pissing off the whole world.

Yes, WRITERS. We are communicators. We should be the ones who write the pearls that make sense, not cause enemies. When someone said the pen is mightier than the sword, boy was that the understatement of our civilization!

Being a writer comes with it a set of rules. Be respectful, only make people cry if it is good for your story, get people mad at the characters, but not you, the writer, or anyone else. Push the envelope, okay, but don't push those other writers and readers off the cliff.

My first manager, when I was in sales, used to ask me not to send memos to the office staff, because I made them cry. I was blamed for one or two quitting. You can imagine how I felt, all 50 other people in the office looking at me like I had leprosy of the fingers. It isn't important whether or not--well, it is, darn it. I did make them quit. There, I've said it. Trying to be honest, here. (There's another rule).

So, as I said before, there are rules, but no hall monitor. No one to say, "Oh, this is this and that is that." Everything is opinion. We judge our results with some numbers, like sales and numbers of readers, but the largest portion is through opinion, a much harder thing to judge.

I once complimented a new coach of my daughter's volleyball team after a "successful" tournament. We lost 50% of the games we played, but these were 12-year-olds, most of them looking like baby giraffes who had just been weaned, unsure of their bodies, and the enormous height they had at such a young age, towering over some of their teachers but certainly all the boys. He asked me:

"How so?"

I told him: "Because we won some games we shouldn't have, lost some we shouldn't have. Everyone got to play. You managed not to piss off any parents or send any girls to the bathroom crying."

Now, can we talk? You've seen the emails, the crash and burns and long accusatory rantings by people who should have seriously thought about another job other than writing. The names are not important, but you've felt your flesh crawl like a good horror story, burst into tears when someone left an unkind, I mean out-of-the-way unkind, review of something you thought was half good. Not saying everyone has to like everything I write, but unkind is not just in the eyes of the beholder. You've seen the group dynamics of one dissenter being piled on. I thought we got over that in Jr. High. I never want to go back to those times. But some people haven't grown up.

Before you send that steaming email, think. There's another T word. Don't finish your sentence and end it with the send button. It should end with a sigh, about ten proofs and a little contemplation. And then send it if it still holds up.

Let's take a little time out and agree to be decent, people. There's a new thought: Try A Little Tenderness. Now those are a couple of great T words for today.

Stimulus Package

I loved the idea of the double meaning of this, so used it on an erotic short I wrote, called The Stimulus Package. An idea whose time has come, as Werner Erhard used to say. I liked that it was positioned in e-pub format right next to the Congressional Stimulus Program, and for a time, my short sold more copies.

But this isn't going to be about erotic writing. This isn't even going to be about my short, or my erotic pen name. Not about politics, either. It's about what stimulates me, as a writer.

So many great words begin with "S". Or, maybe I notice it because of my first name: sensual, sexy, something special, sultry, satisfying--the list is endless. But then there's also stupid, stormy, selfish and self-serving. Seasick does it all with the double "S" sound. I get seasick every time I take a cruise, for the first day or so.

There's salesmanship, and I was one of the best. There's savings, and that one I should have had help with. Spending, shopping spree--all things I used to do and now don't. There was my beautiful S-class Mercedes I gave up. I now drive a pickup truck. I was just thinking as I came home from the feed store today, buying hen scratch, egg-maker pellets, sawdust and black oil sunflower seeds, how much I enjoy my old pickup. I can get it dirty and it seems to like me even better. All things pass. My cars are now passed down to people who want to pay to have a--you guessed it--another "S" word: STATUS SYMBOL.

There's Smith Magazine: http://www.smithmag.net.

They are the crew that do the 6-word Memoir books, with great quotes like: For Sale. Baby Shoes. Never Worn. (Ernest Hemingway) or Long Walks. Fast Cars. Slow Kisses. (mine). I once had fun with some ladies thinking up a story where all the dialog was 6-word emails.

I won their 100-word Pregnancy contest with my true story, posted on pickle jars. And Rick's Picks are darned good pickles, too. He even told me he likes to read romance, and I'm impressed because he's Ivy League. I understand our President likes the People's Pickle best. But I'm just trying to make up for the Stimulus thing (notice he doesn't say it anymore on TV?). I'm dying to hear him say, "Stimulus Package" on air like he used to. I think he'll smile. Ohhh! That's another "S" word.

Okay, I like showers, too. A buddy like this to rub soap all over my skin.

My husband actually does a very nice job, and he is my real life buddy of choice, although we do a lot more laughing and spraying water in the shower than kissing these days. But I'm not complaining. I love him dearly.

I love Syrah. I love strawberries, squash, snapdragons, sushi, salmon and See's candies. I even like skydiving.

In short, I just think life is worth savoring. That's where I get my inspiration. Watching people, participating, showing up.

So, what do you have to share?

Rodrigo Santoro

I have to admit to having a crush on Rodrigo Santoro. Yes, I'm happily married, but if this man came to my front door, it would break my heart to say no. And because there's no danger this will ever happen, I don't have to think about it very much.

When I began writing Angel, there was a character I'd seen somewhere who matched the vision I kept having. I dreamed this blonde Guardian angel fell in love with a handsome, Latin man, who was soft spoken, with a smooth exotic accent. My character was striking, but almost embarrassed at how women fell into his arms so easily. I like writing Alpha males. This one was/is a painter, and I decided he should be from Brazil, and be fearless the way he loves.

I began writing the story December 15th. On Christmas Eve, I was watching one of my favorite movies, Love Actually, which has become somewhat of a tradition in our family, and, sitting next to my grown children and husband, there he was. My hero. Karl, Laura Linney's love interest. The actor was Rodrigo Santoro. When I searched his background, I found he was from Brazil.

I collected a series of Brazilian love songs (I don't speak Spanish or Portuguese) and jazz, watched exerpts of his almost-love scene, where they undress, after I'd stretched the three minute segment using super slow mo on my computer, to a whopping fifteen minutes. I could see every ripple of his gorgeous washboard chest, the way he smiled, the twinkle in his eye when her dress got caught, how he carefully but commandingly kissed her. Laura Linney either did a really great job of acting, or she was into it. Big time. Slow motion doesn't lie...

And then I found this ad he made with Nicole Kidman for Chanel No. 5. My story has a happy ending, a true romance ending, but other than that, this was my story, with different characters. My female is Claire, a Guardian angel, fair and angelic, but a rebel, bored in her station of life, looking for a little adventure, not knowing she was missing true love.

Did you notice the Director begins his narrative with an angel in the lower left corner of the screen? In my version of Heaven, not all angels have wings. On weekends they have a golden playhouse that only plays the same piece each week, with different actors: a musical version of Peter Pan. And Tinkerbelle is the lead in Heaven's version, a much coveted role.

How amazing when I heard a translation of an interview with this actor, telling the audience he'd love to bring a children's Peter Pan production to Brazil.

There are several other circumstances that make this magical story one I am preparing to launch. But the purpose of this post isn't really to self-promote. It is to share just a kernel of where all the passion and desire to tell this story came from.

Because as a writer, we sometimes do fall in love with our characters. I certainly did. How about you?

QUEEN FOR A DAY

I'm probably dating myself. Do you remember that TV program? Some of you might think reality TV is tacky, that our standards have diminished from lofty heights. You never saw Queen For A Day, then.

Five contestants would tell their story. I forgot the announcer's name, but he later appeared in several Hitchcock TV movies. Each woman's story was sadder than the next one, until finally, they got someone who had truly been dealt a bad luck hand. It was usually the woman with 8 kids whose husband abandoned her after her boss fires her and the bank repossess her car. But all she really wanted was a new vacuum or something so she could at least keep a clean house. They would have some kind of audience voting system (way before internet and phone voting), and the sympathy factor was displayed on the screen with an arrow that looked like an old-fashioned scale.

The woman chosen would be whisked away by two beautiful bathing beauties, a crown placed on her head that always seemed to fall off. She was presented with a velvet robe lined in ermine. She had a staff, and was handed a bouquet of roses that usually fell too. She cried and cried, so grateful to be made Queen for A Day, sitting on her throne, with the announcer singing the theme song to organ music with lots of rips and trills. It was pure spectacle.

My grandmother liked to watch it when she came to visit. Being a minister's wife, I would have thought her tastes would have gone to some other sort of escapism. My grandparents heard stories like these every day at the parsonage.

When my little brother and I visited grandma and grandpa, we'd sometimes be moved to the living room couch in the middle of the night when a woman and perhaps a couple of children would need a place to stay, and usually it was to get away from an abusive husband. I learned at an early age about these kinds of stories. I considered myself lucky my family didn't look like any of that.

I also heard stories about traveling bands of homeless men during the depression always knowing whose house to stop by and ask for a meal at the back door. They used to leave a mark on my grandparent's front yard or fence, that told others there was a kind-hearted family that lived there.

I often wonder what became of those women who appeared on the TV show. Did their lives change because of the generous sponsors who gave them new furniture, a new wardrobe, toys for the kids and sometimes a new washer dryer? I always wanted to know the whole story, not just what was on the TV.

I was a budding novelist way back then. I've learned since that not everything is real on TV, just like I learned they can't see you when you're naked. Those were the days I used to think crosswalks were made so if you got hit by a car and you were in that crossing zone, the state would pay for your funeral.

I'm glad to say as I grew up, I never lost my compassion for the human condition, or failed to see the humor and wonder of it all.

What about you?

Peter: My first love at Age 6

Peter was my first love. His mother was a model, and a woman so beautiful, she took my breath away every time I looked at her. I felt like I should pay money to someone, she was that striking. My mom was beautiful too, but in a natural way. Peter's mom wore lots of makeup, and was the first woman I'd met who got her nails done. She also modeled with an apricot poodle named Bijou.

Okay, the poodle wasn't really apricot-colored. She had him dyed. He went to the groomer I think once a week. Had his toes painted pink too. Peter hated that dog, and so did his sister. So did my little brother. So did everyone on the block. So did Peter's father (we heard them arguing about it all the time).

Peter and I had a song, "The Yellow Rose of Texas." We used to make up stories about how I'd be tied up by the bad guys in his tree house (before I was old enough to think up something really fun and erotic like now), and he'd come and rescue me. I didn't mind being rescued. He didn't mind being the hero. But my little brother and his little sister got tired of playing the bad guys. "Can't we rescue each other this time?" my brother would ask.

The answer was always the same: No. He had the unhappy fortune to be born younger. It would never change.

Shortly before we moved away, Peter and I had the brilliant idea we should put my brother, Peter's sister and Bijoux in Bijoux's dog house, close the latch on the door, and roll it across the yard. And so we did.

That woman used to love making me look like Marilyn Monroe with her makeup. Even my little brother got his makeup done too. But after that afternoon with the dog house, she never looked at me the same way. I was a demon child to her. A bad influence on her son.

I don't know what possessed me to do this. We even put our dog, Barney, in our clothes dryer and turned it on. He wasn't hurt, but luckily my Mom got there in one or two revolutions. Barney wobbled his way out to the backyard, looking much the same as Bijoux did when Peter's mother ran screeching and let him out of the doghouse. I noted how she was far more concerned for his safety, than Peter's little sister. Poor Bijoux.

I guess I was going through a phase of wanting to do adventurous things. I'm not a bad person. I was experimenting. Just shaking things up. I never considered it would be bad for them.

Peter and I vowed to write, but never got addresses. We vowed to marry when we were old enough, and never met again. I wonder what he thinks of me, that tomboy who was always getting us into trouble.

What about you? Do you have a first crush, a special childhood friend, either real or imaginary?

Oh The Places You Will Go

One of my friends retired and was leaving for a very long vacation, sailing around the world. He'd been planning this trip for his whole life. Part of it included some volunteer work in Thailand, I think.

We gave him the Dr. Seuss book, Oh, The Places You Will Go, and each of us took a page and signed a personal message to him. It was the perfect gift. I wish I had that book now to be able to quote from it, but all my children's books are still packed, having set them aside in storage during our house re-build. Since my children are all grown, I gave 13 boxes away to our local library. Now that I have grandkids, time to dust of the favorite ones I saved, start reading them all over again. Ah! That amazing cycle of life...

I love traveling, going places and being surprised. If I could afford it, I would travel every month to some exotic place. One of my writer friends, James Garcia, blogged yesterday about going to a Caribbean island or mountaintop resort for inspiration, like some famous musicians do. That would work for me.

In between my writing spurts, I could get a massage, be brought some fresh grilled seafood sprinkled with fresh lime and salsa, sip on fresh squeezed juices, and work on my tan.

The reality of this actually happening to me is practically nill, but I'm not dwelling on this. I'd have to become another Stephanie Meyer (I'm working on it, though). But the idea inspires me: traveling to fabulous places to write.

I copy pictures from online travel magazines and frequently look at them. I think about what story I could write there, let my mind wander. Nice thing about this is I go there without spending any money! I meet imaginary people, act out imaginary love scenes on horse-drawn sleighs, rustic cabins, or in the warm sand at midnight under the moonlight. Each picture tells an adventure I have in my own head, something perhaps I could bring to the page and let readers experience in their own way as well.

Reading a good book takes us not only to a place, but a time. It takes us away from our everyday lives, and for little money, takes us on a journey of the author's mind.

As wonderful as these photographs are, the journey of the written word is much more epic. Imagination has no limitation in time and space. All it takes is just a little time, and a good couch or chair to sit in. And enjoy.

Never Give Up, Never Surrender

I loved Galaxy Quest. The law of unintended consequences made this a funny twist on real vs. simulation. The "simulators" became real, actually accomplished in reality what they were acting in the show.

On day "F" I blogged about Failing Forward. Giving up and surrendering is not failing. Failing is trying to do something, and not succeeding. It is as much a part of our every day life as breathing or walking. But giving up and surrendering, well that's a horse of another color.

My first manager in Real Estate used to tell me he could tell when someone had given up. He said they would walk into his office with that imaginary spear through their middle, have the gait and the look in the eye that told him they were quitting. Just couldn't take it anymore. Someone had gotten to them. He used to tell me it made him angry that someone who shouldn't matter, caused a good person to give up.

My SEAL friends know that by the end of their training, just before they graduate, the instructors could ask them to do anything and they'd do it without considering the consequences to their own person, not consider the pain. At a certain point that line is crossed and that person would never quit. Never.

Unlike failure, quitting just ends the game. I think it was Robert Louis Stevenson who said the difference between a published author and an unpublished author is a published author writes until he's published. The unpublished author quits.

Some days it seems like it's hard to put one foot in front of the other, or there are two steps forward and one back. But if we keep moving, keep writing, keep working on our passion, we eventually get there.

Maybe it's just as easy as deciding there isn't anything out there that will make us quit.

So we won't.

What about you?

Mama Said There'd Be Days Like This

Spent all day today driving from San Diego to Santa Rosa. My husband and I finished a book on tape called Vanished, and it was wonderful. A real thriller. Highly recommend the unabridged version. I suddenly feel in awe of this author, doubting myself again. This happens sometimes when I read too much while I'm trying to create. But I wanted to hear the pacing of the tension, the way he chose his chapter hooks (and he did it very well), the complicated plot that was just difficult enough to make it unpredictable, but not too confusing. It was riveting. Testament to that was the number of wrong turns we took. We ignored the very polite woman on the GPS and found ourselves listening to her say, "recalculating" several times. Now, that's a good book, right?

Sometimes you want the reader to know where it's going to go. Like the woman walking down a dark alleyway. We are saying, just like we do when we watch a horror film on TV: "Get out of there right now. Are you nuts?" But no, the writer takes you there, and you just know what could happen, and we are thrilled when it does, but is even better than we had imagined. That is what I call the genius factor.

So, I was thinking about that today, as a big black cloud traveled over our car and seemed to follow us until dark. I knew when I checked on my chickens, cats and dogs, my garden, I'd discover everyone was still alive and in great shape. But I worried about them. Like I sometimes worry about my talent.

Then I remembered something I was told: Talent is Overrated. It's all about the hard work, the focus, singleness of purpose. Plants and animals live. They don't sabotage themselves or talk themselves out of being miraculous. Everything they do is consistent with their lifelong goals. We humans have way more choice, and there's good and bad with that.

The boats. I remembered watching the boats, the crunches, the wet and sandy. The sheer

determination and singleness of purpose.

A young SEAL told me he felt lucky to have found something he truly loved doing at such a young age. He felt fortunate to have the opportunity to push himself, to find out what his limits were.

Suddenly, when the sky turned dark and the stars came out, I followed the highway, and realized, the dark cloud was gone.

And now I'm excited to spend all day tomorrow doing a writing marathon, getting my little boat (my story) over the rocky boulders of doubt and back onto the beach for some editing crunches. And then I'll do it all over again.

Afterall, I don't want to miss this boat. There might not be a second chance at this great opportunity.

What about you? What do you do when you doubt yourself? Did your mama prepare you for days like this?

Love

Would you expect me to write about anything else?

There are many kinds of love. I was talking about writing romance last night over dinner. The love relationship in my stories is usually hero/heroine. But yesterday I was writing a scene where an older man was thinking about his wife of almost 30 years, who had passed on, and how he missed her, and how he'd wished they'd had children so some part of her remained in his life.

He was talking with another man of about the same age, who had children, but not the devoted love relationship of the first man. And yet, there was a deep committed love in his life as well, and from that common space between them, they could cooperate and focus on a common goal. These are secondary characters, allies of the Hero.

Have you noticed the pure love a baby gives when he smiles at you? I see my grandson light up when my son walks into the room. It is almost a religious experience for me. And I say that with all due respect to every religion.

Love heals. I believe in this with every fibre of my being. Take something flawed, something broken or damaged, and add a loving relationship, and you have something that can mend, become greater than it was before. This transformational love is what I write about.

I'm sitting in a restaurant now, and there is an old woman who is in some pain, with a bandana on, indicating to me she is undergoing some radiation or chemotherapy treatments. She is sitting next to a son who appears to be devoted to her. She leans against his shoulder and he lets her rest her head. She smiles and mumbles things, and he is attentive. Her husband looks stressed. He frowns, is preoccupied. I understand his pain. At least I think I understand his pain.

My Angel will be released sometime in May. I write about how a Guardian Angel loves her work, and her charge so much, she will give up immortality to be with the man she was created to love. I can't wait for you to read it.

What do you think about love? What inspires you when you hear that word? Or when you hear the name of the person who is your true love?

Keep The Boats Afloat

I got the opportunity to visit Coronado Island and watch as SEAL class 288 was doing their boat crew exercises. Watching them learn to maneuver as a team, hauling those heavy boats up and over the rocks over and over again, I felt exhausted. At the end of their training, the ones that are left, would be a well-oiled machine, operating as one unit. But yesterday, it was obvious to all of us onlookers they were clearly not there yet.

The instructors will guide them with barks and threats of all night wet and sandys, force them through all the pain so they can become the best of the best. Those that can't keep up with it, will drop. And there isn't any shame in that. The rocks and rough surf and cold, sometimes oily water for their long swims, will sort those who can't from those who can.

It takes a lot of training, and cold critiques and edits to make a good writer. Great writers are made from good writers that push themselves to endure the pain. Every time we invest our emotions in a good story, we also have to face the cold reality that to be successful, you can't just be good enough. You have to be great.

There are lots of distractions that sometime get in the way of my productivity. I use self-imposed deadlines, and ask people to hold me accountable, declare myself and my intentions to "train" myself, since I don't have a hunky 200-pound hardbody screaming at me. My rocks and cold waves are the things of ordinary life that get in the way, my obstacles. I don't have to ring a bell to quit. Quitting would mean giving in to the "I don't feel like it" place I could go to. But I do write something each and every day, without fail, even then.

I've met Team Guys who graduated from one class that started at just under 200, only to graduate less than 10. That kind of determination is what I was reminded of, watching those wonderful young men, going for the brass ring.

And I vowed I would be one of those 10 writers who made it. How about you? In your chosen field, do you have what it takes? Are you willing to overcome the barriers to stand with the best of the best?

Josh: Writing the Bad Boys

I wrote my first book, Angel, which will be out on the e-formats in May, without a villain. I used the barrier of an angel wanting to be human as being the villain in the original story. But after I had finished it, realized I needed an honest-to-goodness actual villain.

So I made up a dark angel, Joshua Brandon. The more I wrote him, the more I fell in love with him. And what happened was, I knew by the time I had finished editing this book, Josh had to have his own book. So, the next one I wrote was Dark Angel, about Josh's conversion from dark to light.

I even think it is easier for me to write the bad boy character than the flawed good guy. I absolutely love how the flaws and scars get melted away by the true love of a good woman, especially if that woman is the opposite of anyone he has been interested in the past.

That spark that exists between the hero and the heroine, their initial and subsequent chemistry, I enjoy writing those parts even more than the sex scenes. And that's saying a lot. I love those too.

I decided to post an exerpt here, showing how he is trying to talk a beautiful young lady into ending her life and becoming a dark angel, thereby remaining young and beautiful forever. Hope you enjoy it. Let me know what you think:

Revenge in a woman this talented is indeed a beautiful thing.

He could see she was getting nervous. “Just listen to me a bit more, Audray, and then I’m going to make you a proposition this one time and this one time only. You don’t even have to tell me your decision tonight. You can take a day or two.”

The waiter stopped by. Josh ordered two more Absinthes.

“Do I have the option to say no? I mean, really no?”

“Absolutely. But I won’t ask you again.”

“But it will cost me either way, right?”

“You’re safe with me. I’ll not let any harm come to you. If you say no, nothing changes, really.” He hesitated to add, “Scout’s honor.” He held up his palm.

“Oh, that’s just wrong. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Josh smiled and shook his head.

“You have a wonderful future with your surgeon. Well, I have another kind of surgery in mind, one of a more permanent nature. What if I were to offer you the chance to be young and look like you do now for the rest of your life? No surgeries, no boring workouts. Young forever. Making love forever in that gorgeous body of yours?”

“How could you do that?”

“Let’s not talk about how it is done. Let’s talk about if we can do it. If I could offer you that, would you take it?”

“What would it cost?”

“The cost is minimal, but free in terms of dollars and cents. We’ll discuss it. Would this be something you would want to do? Be young forever? Twenty-five years old and gorgeous forever? Unlimited sex. No sickness. No sagging. No surgeries to make you look like a freak at sixty? No breast cancer, cholesterol problems, hypertension, stroke…no diapers when you’re eighty-five? Any of this attractive to you, hmmmm?”

The waiter delivered their second round of Absinthe. Josh poured water over the sugar cubes again in slow motion. Audray slipped in a second cube before he finished pouring. He gestured to her to drink up. Audray reached for her glass, downing it in one gulp. She didn’t flinch this time.

Josh could see Audray was thinking about all of it, mulling over the pictures he painted. Her eyes fluttered to the sides and slightly upward, occasionally revealing a tiny line or two at the bridge of her nose. He was getting aroused watching her struggle to make sense of it. He breathed long, slow and deep, giving her a little help. He could smell her fear. He felt victory close at hand.

“God, you’re beautiful.” He meant it.

“Knowing you, there’s a catch.”

“Yes. One teeny tiny one.” He held up his thumb and forefinger showing just how small.

“And that would be?”

“You have to kill yourself.”

I Write For The Next Generation

Whenever I look at this little guy (see the videos down below) I am reminded of why I write. His little innocent eyes will probably never read some of my racy love stories. I write so that part of me will be left behind for future generations, when they are old enough to understand them, of course.

The idea that one of my stories will be read by someone long after I'm gone kind of thrills me. I'm dying to know, since I write angels and other paranormal creatures, whether or not I will be notified somehow that someone is enjoying one of my books. Will I know when I have touched someone's heart? I mean, does some ringer go off in Heaven? A harp or a bell perhaps?

I write because it feels good to do it. It is a huge amount of work, and my hat goes off to those writers who have full time jobs, families to support. Having worked 12-14 hour days for many years, I'm now a full time writer, but that doesn't mean I can slack off or do it leisurely.

I recently discovered my statement of purpose:

I write sensual paranormal romance that inspires women to feel the rapture and power of true love.

Someone once told me that we always write the same theme every time, that every story has the same issues, with different characters and settings. In my case, it is always about forgiveness, finding redemption, about the healing power of love. Not just any love, but true love. My characters are transformed by the experience of being loved and loving another.

I like writing romance so I can contribute a little Happily Ever. I think the world needs a little more of it, don't you?

That's how little guys like this one get created, after all.

Let the healing begin.

Houses

Our house burned down in 2008 and in an instant, everything about our lives changed. I was reduced to only the clothes on my back at the time of the fire: a white nightie. Barefoot and cold, I couldn't believe I was actually watching the house burn, watched as memories and valuable things went up in smoke, taken away in less than twenty minutes.

We slowly began the painful process of arguing with the insurance carrier and negotiating our policy limits with our lender, who was also experiencing troubles of their own: they became insolvent shortly thereafter. We went from one fire to another.

In the meantime, I began cutting pictures out and looking at what I wanted the rest of my life to look like, what my next house would look like.

I stumbled upon a great book: Moving On, by Sarah Ban Breathnach. She talked about putting back together the pieces of her life after a painful and all too public divorce. I could relate. My life felt like one big ugly public divorce, even though my husband and I were still married.

She talks about how there is this special relationship between a woman and her house. She even suggests that some women don't really want a divorce, they just want a new house. How important it is to have a House of Belonging. A place where good things happen, a stage, a canvas, a blank page.

Soon after the fire, and during the creative endeavor of creating a new house, I began to write. And the writing healed me. Fed me. I stumbled, quite by accident, on my true calling.

I'm going to quote her because Sarah says it much more beautifully than I ever could. As a romance novelist, these words touch the seat of my soul:

"...meditating on the emotion women feel when they fall in love at first sight with men; I'm the one making the leap to house fever because I've succumbed to both. Suddenly, without warning (or so it seems) the trajectory of a woman's life changes, becoming "a vicarious route to some essential part of herself that she does not yet fully recognize or understand." The Beloved becomes "the heroic territory she longs to occupy."

She thinks she's found him--or home. Interestingly, the name of the greatest lover of all time, Casanova, means "new house."

Gardens of the Heart

Gardening has always been an important part of my life for over forty years now. I actually discovered seed germination in biology class one summer school session in high school. We put corn and bean seeds in a competing lab team's soil bin during the 4th of July long weekend. And in that dark and warm place, they sprang to life. When the lid was removed, green shoots erupted. As everyone else in the class laughed, I looked at those shoots and knew I was hooked for life.

High school was filled with angst and pain for me, as I think it is almost universally. But I began to enjoy watching living things grow. I began to be the keeper of things that needed mending. A friend of mine had white rabbits he raised, and a jack rabbit got in one night and a few weeks later he had a bunch of halflings he was going to destroy. I took one, rescued it. His pellets of pooh made the corn I started to grow healthy, with ears of mouth-watering flavor we enjoyed for weeks. We had fresh lettuce, tomatoes, but drew the line at my father's favorite: brussels sprouts. Whomever invented those should be shot. No amount of cheese or mayonnaise or fancy French sauce makes them worth eating.

When I set up my own household, we gardened. It was great exercise, and as poor students, it was a great way to stay in shape and eat healthy on a dime.

I am overcome with the beauty of nature frequently as I walk through my gardens in the late spring and summer, when the blossoms are at their peak: full blooms of living color and lots of buds for later blooms. Nothing touches a gardener's soul than healthy plants giving back what they do so well. It is the essence of joy.

I took a collage class a couple of years ago at Book Passages in Marin County. They do for the public what only good independent bookstores can do: bring writers/authors and their books to life. The author was teaching us how to make something from scraps of pictures. She brought huge boxes of old calendars, magazines and scraps of things she'd saved, rescued, from things that would have been thrown away.

The two hours went by so fast I couldn't believe it. When finished, we were asked to stand up in front of the class and share our little works of art, give them a name. I had no idea what I was going to say and was in a panic, hearing all the clever titles other participants were coming up with, and how these pictures were mirroring what was deeply embedded in their soul. One woman had done a collage on how much she hated her husband. There was lots of pain and a few tears shed as each person told a slice of their life's story.

And then it was my turn. From somewhere inside me, I said, "Gardens of the Heart." In the upper right you can see: or possibilities? I had also glued to the page, details. But as I told them this was the way my heart felt inside, I couldn't find the pasted word. And then, when I scratched my nose, there it was, on the end of my finger. Details.

What is a romance to a writer? A collection of details, the look, the smell, the touch of a lover, the way he makes you feel when he walks into the room. That look he gives you when he's been thinking about you when you look up. I can't paint or draw, but I can use words. Words that I hope will make people feel better. Find themselves in a world that causes misfits and strays. Come to the fantasy of my world.

Because, Love Heals in the Gardens of the Heart.

Fail Forward

Day 6 of A-Z Blog tour.

I love this concept of failing forward. Failure gets a bum rap. It isn't nearly as destructive as we think.

When you learned to walk, you fell down. In fact, I don't think you would ever learn to walk if you didn't. When I first learned to ride a two-wheeler, I had to have my Dad start me, and I would stop by crashing into someone's lawn. Just like flying an airplane, take off and landing is the most dangerous. Riding was the fun part, and probably the easy part, except when a car came along or someone's little brother decided to chase a ball directly in front of your trajectory. Then a quick decision was made, and it usually resulted in skinned knees and palms.

I learned to ski when I was 40. I figured if I didn't learn before I was too old to fall down, I would never do it. I took a week-long course in the Canadian Rockies, and after 5 days of lots of falling down, I learned how to ski. I could even ski the medium runs. I even fell on my ski instructor, who had barely missed an Olympic qualifier. But his great skill and speed didn't help him when it came to getting off the chairlift with me the first time. I sat on his knee, and he broke both bones in his lower leg. Oops.

I didn't decide not to ski, not to learn to ride a bike or to walk. I haven't even decided to behave myself all the time, and I'm always getting lessons about my mouth and my opinions, and sometimes I even listen.

Because I'm still out there, slugging away, writing and writing and getting rejected, writing and writing and writing and having someone like my work, and writing and writing and writing, and...well, you know the rest.

Or, like Babe Ruth is reported to have said, "You don't get 100% of the hits you don't take." If there ever was a chance to make it as an author, and I don't mean writing for my own enjoyment but making some serious money, it is now. We have so many options out there. There are millions of discouraged writers who will throw in the towel just when they shouldn't. And we'll still be there.

I got an appointment with an editor I wanted to meet because I was sitting in a chair waiting for someone to not show up. And that's what happened. The other author didn't show up, so I got her spot, and got to pitch to my dream editor. That was a very solid at bat. And, although it didn't give me a home run, I created a base hit out of it by writing a story she didn't like, but someone else did.

If I hadn't sat there, having "failed" at getting an appointment with this editor previously, I wouldn't have gotten the base hit. It would have been fun to hang out in the bar with my friends. But my friends won't be giving me a contract.

No, I may not be the best writer I will be some day, and I certainly am not the most successful yet, but I'm going to outlast everyone.

That means I better be immortal.