Haverhill Ohio is a speck on the map, if you blink once while driving through you’ll miss the entire town. There is no stop light, only a post office and a church situated in a wide place in the road. It’s a flat rural town located on the banks of the Ohio River. A two-lane road divides the town. On each side of the road is flat farmland, often dotted with a lone John Deere tractor driven by a local farmer hoping for a decent planting season. The town’s economy is poor, only driven by a local coke plant, and a chemical plant that has recently announced that it will close in a matter of months.

I grew up in this town. I often wonder why I stayed when there is so much more in any direction over the county line. I live here because I was raised in this town with strong family values, and I have the desire to raise my son in the same atmosphere. The only problem is that sometimes I feel as if the world is moving on without me.

Most people who live here view life outside the town on a TV screen, and we all know how skewed that vision can be. With reality shows setting the precedence in the Neilson Ratings, people have a warped view of the world and reality.

I can remember the first eye roll I received when I told someone I was writing a book. I’ve discovered it was the first but definitely not the last. The majority of my friends and family know I am a writer. They have always been supportive of my writing, but I’ve found a select few beyond that circle, who think I’m wasting my time. They think I have a very weird hobby. I don’t have a problem with this line of thinking; life is too short to be hung up on perceptions.

My ambition is to connect with people in small towns just like mine. I want to make a difference in their lives by allowing them to relate to the characters that I create. Isn’t writing about transformation? We develop characters who overcome conflicts throughout the course of our stories.

If we can fix a character, can’t we fix a reader too?

Can we give a reader hope that if they make a different choice, their life can be better? Can we help them see that even in extenuating circumstances love can persevere? Can we show them through words that they aren’t alone, that people in this world are hurting just as they are, and sometimes for the same reasons? Sometimes the only happy ending a person receives is the one they experience through reading.

I want to provide a happy ending for someone struggling to find a light at the end of a dark tunnel. I want to give the gift of an escape after a long stressful day. I want to whisk someone away from a loveless marriage and give him or her hope that love is still alive in the hearts of those willing to take a risk. But most important, I want them to enjoy the journey.

I know I’m highly optimistic, but isn’t that part of the foundation for a successful writer? It’s always been my nature to fix a person, which explains my present career. However, this time it’s different. Instead of fixing individuals through the science of medicine, I want to make a difference through words in a story.

I may have a rural existence, but my vision stretches far beyond the confines of a small town.

 

 

 

 

 

 

As a historical writer, I find it hard to not get all riled up when I’m doing research.  Recently, I read an article about asylums in nineteenth century England and the conditions of those classified mental ill and it made me want to throw something.  Especially when the article mentioned that women who were too difficult to control were likely to find themselves considered “lunatics” and sent away.   

From child labor to the conditions of the poor in Regency England, I can easily work myself into hysterics over these past events I read about knowing full well that abuses to children, the poor, and women still happen today, though the forms these abuses take may appear different than they did then.

My research inevitably finds its way into my work.  My WIP mentions asylums in two capacities; my witches are worried that if they are discovered they will be sent there and my villain ends up there at the end.   When I write about asylums, I mention the horrors I’ve read about, hoping that others who read my work will be as disturbed by them as I am. 

Misery loves company, I suppose.

Sometimes I worry that I’m standing atop my soapbox when I write, trying to push some sort of hidden agenda.  I try to make sure that any information I give has basis on the plot or the characters.  But, I think that there is always some level of ulterior motivation when it comes to what we write.  We want our readers to react and chances are we have a wish as to how we want them to react.

In Perfect by Judith McNaught, there is an entire subplot about illiteracy.  I remember reading about the levels of illiteracy in the US today and being stunned.  I’m sure that was Ms. McNaught’s intention, to raise awareness, and I believe that she donated some of the funds from the book to a charity fighting illiteracy.

I would never deem to hold myself up next to Judith McNaught, but I can see how something I feel strongly about would find its way into my work.  In fact, I’d expect my thoughts about controversial issues like war, child welfare, poverty, etc. have found their way into my work already, though I hope in the context of characterization and plot instead of outright preaching. 

Do you think it is ok for our work to make a statement about a controversial topic?  Do you think we can avoid that from happening?  Do you think we should even try to avoid it?

 

Beginnings are always the toughest for me. It’s the gateway to the whole book. What I say in that first line will set my tone for what’s to come. And what better way to say that then the title.

 

When I walk into a store, I beeline to the books. It can be Target. It can be Walmart. It can be Hyvee. But I go straight there. Barnes and Noble is heaven for me. I spend a lot of time perusing the library, up on the second floor running my fingers over the thousands of titles. But the single most thing I look for in a book is a title. And the cover. I’m sorry but I’m that person. Tar and feather me if you must but some of the best books I’ve ever read were because I saw them on a shelf, facing out and picked them up for a two-page middle of the book teaser. My mind works like a projector. When I read the words, it plays out like I’m watching it on the screen. The title helps to give me an idea if it might be something I’m interested in. The cover helps me pick it up. I never read a back-cover blurb without reading two pages right in the middle. That’s just the way I am.

 

Two years ago I was in Phoenix at a Walmart in Peoria right off the 101 Loop. They have the biggest book selection ever. Right in the middle of the store. It stretches as far as the eyes can see. I was in need of another book to read. A two and a half hour flight back to Missouri is rough for someone who doesn’t like to fly and I like to spend my time chewing on my fingernails and reading. I searched the new releases. Nothing caught my eye that I didn’t already own. And I head towards the back section. That’s where I saw it. The cover was beautiful, purpleish with gold tones. The middle was a couple. The guy muscular, tan, his dark hair worn longer and the woman, blonde, petite, her hair was plastered to her. He was leaning into her, her mouth ready to be kissed.

 

Hard Evidence. (Pamela Clare)

 

I smiled to myself. A play on words- my kind of book. I picked it up, flipped right to the middle of the book. I can’t repeat the scene. But one might say… uh, um… it was hot. Super hot. Hotter than the Sahara on the most blistering of days. I stood right there in the store fanning myself with this book. My face went flushed. I might’ve sweated a little. I dunno. I was in Phoenix. It was pretty warm.

 

Let’s just say I snatched that book up faster than a rabbit can destroy a strawberry patch.

 

I’m not the best titlist. It goes hand in hand with my inability to write beginnings. I can’t title something I don’t know exactly. Double Vision, my WIP, wasn’t always DV, but I can tell you it happened not too long after I established I was going to start my quest for the original. The plot is completely different as well. My heroine started out as an investigative journalist a little over two years ago. Now my heroine is a special agent for the FBI, working in the cyber crimes unit.

 

This is my first beginning. My working title at the time (which stayed for all of two days, I think. I had to go look up my emails from two years ago. LOL) was Practice Makes Perfect Murder. Just like a headline. Or at least I thought it was in my head. (I’m telling you I suck at titles. I always have. I just happen to have the best titlist in the world as a best girlfriend.)

 

“I’d always thought that paper and ink smelled a lot like heaven and a little like hell. Let’s just say I was leaning a little more towards the hell part today.

 

It was Friday and the office at Midwestern Daily had been a cluster of activity up until about three hours ago. I had been at my desk for 12 hours today and hadn’t accomplished one damn thing. Not one word was written on my computer screen and I still had a nasty red-penciled marked article sitting on my desk courtesy of Dave Winton, Editor-in-Chief. But at the moment I was too fed up to really give a flying rat’s ass.”

 

 

My beginning now, which is still subject to change since I’ve not finished yet and I always rewrite the beginning after I’ve written “The End” is not much better. But better fitting for the title of Double Vision. I’m still thinking up the perfect first sentence. It has to be something completely smart ass, just like Sadie. I will come up with it after I’ve written the last word. That’s usually how this works for me.

 

“It’s been four weeks! What do you mean clean-up isn’t taken care of yet?” I tapped my pencil on the desk and the eraser’s momentum carried it higher and higher the madder I got. I was speaking to my superior, James Davenport of the Washington D.C. FBI office and I tried to keep my voice down to a whisper but I was fighting a losing battle with my temper. “By now Ivan Petrenkov’s whole operation could be shut down!”

 

 

Double Vision is reflective of my plot. There is a lot that can be said for double vision. It can remind you of being drunk in a bar, weaving through the tables as you make your way outside. You vision so blurry you can’t make out which one is real and which one is the fake. It can be the mirror image of my heroine with her twin. The twin is not the main plot. Only the background. Things get very interesting for Sadie when she returns home to Missouri. Practice Makes Perfect Murder wouldn’t fit for this story anymore. To even write that is just silly for me. Bad, bad title. Shame on me. That’s like having a mullet and air-guitaring to Stairway to Heaven.

 

To me the title is the bread and butter of the cover. It is what will attract a lot of people. It is what will ring in their ears long after they’ve forgotten what the cover looked like. It’s hard to come up with something catchy. And for us writing series’, it’s hard to find something you can use over and over again without it becoming stale. It’s like the perfect accessory. Almost as important as the right shoe for the trouser jeans you love to wear. Without a title, your book would be just another untitled good sitting on the shelf waiting to be picked up, begging to be read.

 

 

I know our writing pirate wenches out there have something to share. Give me your best first title and how it’s changed since you’ve began.  Do you think a short or a long title is better? For our readers, do you base your reading off title, cover, blurb or a little of everything? What’s the best title you’ve read for a book that seemed to fit perfectly?

Once upon a time there was a conflicted princess who was in love with a handsome, noble knight; however, she was sworn to marry an unknown prince from a far away land. Because she loved her father, she did not want to do anything that would shame her in his eyes, but neither did she want to give up what might her only chance for true love. So…

 

PICK ONE

 

A.   She marries the unknown prince

B.   She marries the knight

C.   She proposes a contest for all the noble men (including said prince) to joust for her hand

 

So say we pick A. She marries the unknown prince, even though her heart remains with the noble knight. She is terribly unhappy in her new marriage, but she comforts herself that she’s done the right thing. NOW PICK ONE.

 

A.   The prince slowly seduces her, winning her heart, and she is now newly conflicted with being in love with two men. She’s sworn to remain true to her beloved knight, but she can’t help but be seized by raptures in the prince’s bed

B.   The prince takes a mistress, and the princess is even more miserable. The prince also berates her for not being very princess-like. She must do something. She can’t remain here; she must….

C.   Her beloved knight is also now part of her personal bodyguard. She begins an affair with him, even though she knows if she is caught, they will both die

 

Those are interesting turns-of-events; however, I’m curious what would have happened if she had married the knight. So let’s go back a step and pick B.

 

A.   She elopes with the knight, but the prince, furious with her betrayal, follows her and kills the knight in a post-honeymoon fight. He takes her back to his castle but plans to keep her as a whore

B.   She elopes with the knight, but her father cuts her off. The knight becomes a mercenary, and though they struggle to make ends meet, they still love each other (and can’t keep their hands off each other)

C.   After eloping and being cut off from her father, the knight becomes resentful of the constant struggle—and blames her for their lack of financial circumstances. He tells her she should have married the prince, then they’d both be happy

 

Hmm. That one was a bit dark, but the option A would be an interesting plot development, wouldn’t it? Okay, what if we’d picked C.

 

A.   The prince wins, and she marries him, grudging, but admiring of his skill to even beat her beloved knight. He whisks her back to the castle, unaware she’s still carrying a torch for the unseated knight

B.   The knight wins, and she marries him. Her father gives her the dowry she would have gotten for the prince; and they move North to a castle property that belonged to her mother.

C.   Neither of them wins. Gareth, Earl of Swinehearth, won the tournament, and he is now the lucky guy who gets to wed her. Only he was such an appalling bastard when they were children, how will she stand it?

 

Do we see what the problem is yet?

 

Too many choices. Not all of these are “great” choices; some of them are no-brainer “discard”, but there are several that would actually be interesting to pursue, that would have interesting and overarching conflict for at least 400 pages. What’s a writer to do?

 

When I first started eating Chinese food, I only ate Twice-Cooked Pork, Crab Rangoon, and Hot and Sour soup. It was so much easier to order when I didn’t pursue other choices to see if there was anything better or equally enjoyable. Now I look at a Chinese menu, and it takes a half-hour to decide what I want. Oh, look steamed dumplings! But oh, oh, vegetable lo mein—how I do adore those spicy noodles! OMG! They have Ginger Chicken. Well, I have to order that, but how can I get that when I’m craving dumplings? And soup. Don’t forget the soup. I walk out with $20 of food that ends up feeding me for the next three days.

 

You can’t do that in a romance. 400 pages is it. You’re allowed to spend $7.85 and that’s it. Now what do you order? You certainly do not want to be sitting at the table with your selection and go, “Damn, I should have ordered the Ginger Chicken.” You do not want to get to page 300 of your novel and go: “Maybe I should have had her marry the Earl of Swinehearth; he was kinda cute for a bastard.”

 

How do I know which was the right choice? Because if you’ve done your work on your characters, even your less “obvious choice” characters will be right your hero or heroine. Think of Sweet Home Alabama. Two great hero choices—so it basically boiled down to the guy who was her roots and the guy who was her wings. Mr. Roots won out, but only because he had come up enough in the world to be able to understand her need for things outside their small town and a willingness (and ability) to help with her wings. He could give her both. But does that mean Mr. Wings couldn’t have given her roots? Is small-town family life the only married life that is ideal? Can you not be happy married and living in New York City, vacationing at Martha’s Vineyard, and dropping off your kids at private school?

 

My friend Tammy said that movie ended wrong. She wanted Patrick Dempsey and couldn’t imagine any woman in her right mind picking redneck Josh Lucas. My best friend and I sighed and said, “Josh.” And Tammy said, “I rest my case.” And secretly I think she’s right. I think Felony Melonie could have been just as happy with Patrick as she was with Josh.

 

So what’s the right course for your book? What if you have so many options, you feel a bit like Jack looking at his compass, watching the needle spin because you don’t know what you want. You want a happy ending. But happy endings come in many different guises. Which one is the happiest for this character? How do you decide? Put them all in a hat and just start pulling them out?

 

So choose your own blog ending question:

A.   Do you think Felony Melonie picked the right man at the end of Sweet Home Alabama? Why or why not?

B.   Do you have this problem with writing? How do you overcome it? Or if you’re a reader, do you read a new plot point and think, “God, why did she go there? That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard!”?

C.   Which way would you have told the story above?

Today is the observed first day of summer, though the real first day of summer is not for weeks, so we thought we’d pull into port and join all the Memorial Day celebrations.  We’ll start with the serious stuff and get silly from there.

 

The official origins of Memorial Day are sketchy, but it basically started in the 1860s when people wanted to honor and remember those who gave their lives in the Civil War.  After World War I, it changed to honor all who died in any war.  And it became an official federal holiday (in the US) by an act of Congress in 1971.  So, might I suggest, between the hot dogs and the belly flops, take a moment to remember those who have fought and died for our freedom.  And those who will die today, and tomorrow, and the next day.

 

We cherish too, the Poppy red
That grows on fields where valor led,
It seems to signal to the skies
That blood of heroes never dies.

-         Moina Michael

 

Now onto the silly stuff.  Here’s what the crew will be doing on shore leave.  *Note: these are true testimonies of the Pirates herein and I take no responsibility for their accuracy or debauchery.

 

The Captain will be depleting her alcohol stores: cold beer in the fridge, rum behind the bookcase, and wine given to her by a faculty member with the title “Grad-zilla Eraser”. She is going to do her damnedest to erase the Grad-zillas she’s had to put up with the last few weeks and think of new and creative ways to stop doing folders.

 

 

 

 

 

 

In honor of our fallen heroes, Gunner Marnee will also be drinking alcohol, though probably something girlie, like whiskey or tequila.  She will also be stuffing herself with her fair share of salads and burgers in their honor, attempting to wrangle her son, and keep her adult cool when the teenagers next door set off fireworks at ungodly hours, as they are wont to do during holidays of patriotic classification.
 
Beyond that, she would like to write her sex scene as she’d expect her characters are sexually frustrated at this point and she almost feels bad about stringing them on in this fashion.  Almost. (editor’s note: love that whiskey is considered a girlie drink.)

 

Powder Monkey Lisa will be celebrating L’il Pirate Chad’s birthday with an inflatable party and 30 kids. She will need Valium in the worst way:) PM will also be cooking out on Monday and doing the usual placing of flowers on relatives graves. (editor’s note: bonus points for Lisa.)

 

Quarter Master Sin’s got nothing. She could make up something really awesome and people would believe it, like roasting said kittens Hellion was saving (inside joke – just go with it) and selling them as kabobs to hungry orphans. But that would seem rather mean. Just a little bit.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Honorary Pirate Queen and Whip Wielder Dee will be relaxing, watching Blockbuster movies and WRITING. (editor’s note: no need to show off.)

 

And I, Bo’sun Terrio, am leaving my options open.  I’m pretty sure there will be time spent at the community pool (where I will be hiding far from the water’s edge pretending to write) and lots of sleeping.  Did I mention sleeping?

It’s your turn.  What are you doing today?  And contrary to what’s written above, don’t be surprised if most of us just end up playing online today.  Or sleeping.

This week on the ship, we’re kicking it old school.  I suffered greatly on Thursday, putting off actual work, to find pictures of utterly swoon worthy Austen men.  Due to the technical difficulties experienced Friday morning, Santa’s blog had to be posted in all haste which meant many pictures were left out.  I hate to think all my suffering will go for naught.  So I give you our Regency era Most Eligibly Bachelor Pirates.  (I realize they are not technically pirates but I don’t think anyone is going to complain.)

   

We have Mr. Darcy (in stereo), Mr. Bingley, Mr. Knightly, Captain Wentworth, Colonel Brandon, Mr. Ferrar, and Mr. LaFroy.  I apologize for any drool inducing keyboard issues.

 

I want to thank Santa O’Byrne for being our special guest on Friday and am proud that we managed to get as many commenters as we did with so many technical issues.  The dang server would have to throw fits on Santa’s big day.

 

I hope everyone enjoys their Memorial Day, send safe wishes out to everyone facing storms this weekend, and urge all to take a moment and remember those who have given their lives fighting for our country as well as those who continue to do so.

My sincere apologies for the lateness of this blog.  Server issues, gotta love technology.  But better late than never!  Here’s Santa.

Manga.  Sounds like an exotic fruit our fair pirate lasses may have come across while transiting through the South Pacific’s Cook Islands.  Alas, not so my hardy wenches and deckhands.  Manga is the Japanese word for comics.  These stylized books have their roots in ancient Japan, but their images were said to have morphed from exposure to the comics American soldiers had with them during World War II.  Here in the United States, Manga really began to reach the masses during the 70s and 80s.

Who knew?!

I’ll tell you who knew – my 11 year old daughter.  I’d heard about these books but had never seen one until she came home with one from our local library.  Now, you can call me a snob but I never considered Mangas to be ‘real’ books capable of telling a story with substance.  I was to be disabused of that notion in very short order by my daughter and that book she carried home.

You see, the book she’d gotten was an adaptation of Shakespeare’s ‘Romeo & Juliet’. I’d expected it be populated with doe-eyed characters with little bubbles of modern verse escaping half-moon smiles.  Instead I found Shakespeare – chapter and verse.  Huh.

Still I hesitated and called my trusty Shakespearean whose son, close in age to my daughter, is an avid Manga fan.  She assured me that exposing children to the classics in any format was a very good thing.  Fair enough.

Well, my daughter raced through the book, fell in love with Romeo and Juliet, was quoting Shakespeare for weeks afterwards and asked what other Shakespearean plays I’d recommend.

So that got me to thinking.  If Shakespeare can be transformed into a Manga why not other classics?  Say – Jane Austen.  Now, I can hear the gasps, so please bear with me.  Until recently, I’ve been a Jane Austen purest.  No novels about Mr. Darcy and any progeny he may have had.  No Captain Wentworth for the 24^th century.  But what about  a black ink rendering of Mr. Darcy emerging drenched from the pond at Pemberly?  Or Mr. Knightly chastising Emma for her meddling ways?  Or Elizabeth Bennett’s refusal of what has to be the worst proposal ever spoken between clenched teeth?

More news on the Manga horizon for me because it’s already being done.  Jane Austen’s beloved ‘Pride and Prejudice’ is already in Manga format.  As a matter of fact, one of our own lusty pirate lasses has a Jane Austen Manga as her avatar on the Eloisa James/Julia Quinn BB.  Delightful.  Looks like I can have my Mr. Darcy in ink after all! 

What say you my pirate friends?  I’m sure there are already Mangas straight from the classics lists.  Can you see A Christmas Carol or The Adventures of Tom Sawyer retold?

And what of our beloved romance novels?  I, for one, can see Christina Dodd’s paranormal series easily translated into this medium.  My knees weaken at the thought of having Mary Balogh’s haughty Wulfric raising his quizzing glass at everyone. Mmmmm.

Friends, it seems I’ve been reformed.  What of your own books or works in progress?  There some incredible debut authors whose books will be out in the next few years.  I think it’d be fantastic to see some of those books in this format.  In fact, I’ll go out on a limb about my own manuscript, ‘Sweet Melissa’ as a Manga.  I do have that scene under the pergola behind Melissa’s restaurant when Jake backs her against the post and begins to show her she is as delicious as warm peach cobbler drenched in vanilla bean ice cream. 

What do you think, my pirate lads and lasses?  Is Manga the wave of romance’s future or just another fantastic way to tell a tale worth retelling in another way?  Come aboard and share your own thoughts.  I’ll be popping in throughout the day to chat with you all.

Thanks, once again, for letting me aboard one of the best pirate ship blogs out there!

As I’ve been working up to writing my sex scene, I’ve been reading over my entire story. 

*GM dodges behind a barrel on deck as the Captain makes for her with an empty rum bottle, screeching, “Write AS IF!!”*

*GM holds out her arms in a defensive motion.*   I know!  I am not supposed to reread until I’m done, but I assure you it was necessary.

*The Captain returns to her seat, muttering and still appearing suspicious though pacified for the moment.*

*GM sighs, visibly relieved, and continues.*

As I started writing my love scene, I realized that I wasn’t confident that I’d built the sexual tension between my characters as well as I could have.   I started reading back through and found plenty of spots to shore up the tension.

Sandra Brown said somewhere that sexual tension is created by using “exaggerated awareness.”  Basically, every time the hero and heroine meet every sense between them should be electrified.

I tried to recall any time in my life I’ve felt like that and the closest I can remember required me to do a time travel back to middle school and relive my first real crush. 

*The Gunner begins moving her hands up and down a la Wayne and Garth in SNL*  Dododo, dododo…..

To me, he was Adonis.  He was very athletic and I remember he had the best body of all the boys in our grade (probably not difficult when compared to a bunch of eighth graders).  I would spend extraordinary amounts of time lying on my bed listening to music in my angst-ridden adolescent glory, dreaming of his muscular body and girlishly wishing for kisses and touches from him.

This was all horribly unrequited, of course.  He was “going with” the head of the cheerleaders and probably didn’t even notice me beyond the time he picked me to be in his science group.  Then I hoped pathetically that it was a show of affection.  Now I’m certain it was because I was a geekily good student.  *cue Taylor Swift’s Teardrops On My Guitar*

Every time he came into the room it was as if I could sense him even before I saw him.  His every movement set my little pre-pubescent heart thumping.  When he was near, I could hardly breathe and talking, HA!  I doubt I ever said more than one syllable to him at a time with the sum total of all of my syllables to him ever equaling one sentence, maybe.   My body would feel paralyzed when he was around and if I even thought his gaze was on me, I would blush horribly and my movements would feel jerky. 

Back then, those new experiences were equally awful and wonderful.  Half of me wanted to be around him while the other hated to be in his presence.

I imagine exaggerated awareness being something like that, though hopefully without the more mortifying aspects of adolescent misery.   I’ve been attempting to harness all that girly stuff for my characters’ benefits and trying not to dwell on my juvenile silliness.   

Though, maybe that juvenile silliness is the very innocence and vulnerability my characters need.

How do you create sexual tension in your WIP?  Any thoughts on Exaggerated Awareness?  How about horrible unrequited love stories?  *sigh*

It was dark by the time I walked through the door. Seven o’clock. You wouldn’t think that was overly late but it wasn’t yet spring in Missouri and time hadn’t reverted back to borrowing time to make it light longer.

 

I dropped my keys in my purse. I had a major headache going on. I’d just finished Eleven on Top by Janet Evanovich this morning before work and then ending was still bugging me. I went into the kitchen and flipped on the light, finding the book on my desk, I popped it open to the last 30 pages. It was a quick read for me. I had almost every line memorized. The way Ranger finds Stephanie crammed into an overhead cabinet. The way their eyes met. The way he kisses her bloody wrists. The emotion I felt in those few short paragraphs was killing me. How could she not be with him?

 

Matty popped his head around the corner and I closed the book with a sharp snap.

 

“You wanna watch a movie?”

 

“Sure.”

 

Blow was the choice movie. We’d seen it at least a dozen times before. We sat on the couch together in the dark, eyes focused on the TV and still my mind wandered. I couldn’t get that scene out of my head. I knew there wasn’t another book. I’d checked a million times at the library. No new book for a few more months. I surely was going to die with longing to know what happened next. What if they didn’t get together in the next book? What about that look? How could she not see what I see?

 

There was only one way to fix this in my mind. I had to just get it out. I had to write. But how the hell was I going to do that? I had no idea what I was doing. I didn’t even have a notebook to write on.

 

You know what will happen in the next book, don’t you? There it was. That little voice. Poking me. Prodding me. They won’t be together. What are you going to do then? What if he brushes a curl behind her ear and walks away. What if there wasn’t another book?

 

I had to fix this problem. It was driving me nuts. I had printer paper. As soon as Matty went to bed, I was going to find a pen and just write something. Who cared if it made sense. No one would ever see it but me. No one would have to know what I’d done. Surely I’d lost my mind. No character had ever come to life for me like Ranger and Stephanie on a page. There was something about the way they looked at each other.

 

I looked up at Matty sitting beside me on the couch and he happened to look down at me the same time. The glow from the TV was perfect on his smiling face and I knew why I was addicted. Matty was my Ranger. And I had to let Stephanie see that. Somehow.

 

That settled it. I had to do something. So I patiently waited. I fidgeted. I chewed on my thumbnail. I got up and walked around. I did the dishes. And finally, it was midnight. Way past our bedtime. I smiled all the way up the stairs. I thought of the way I wanted to write. What I was going to write. It was going to be perfect. And finally I’d be able to have some peace and quiet.

 

It was one am. I tossed back the blankets and crept down the stairs. The house was eerily silent in the hush of night and I was slightly creped out that I had the guts to walk down into the kitchen. I pulled a couple of sheets from the print and found an old ink pen. I slid into a kitchen table chair and sat there.

 

No words came to me.

 

I put my head in my hands. This was the worst feeling. I knew it was there. Why couldn’t I write it now?

 

“I glanced into the mirror. The black mini dress molded to every curve and made me feel slightly self-conscience. I could do this, I reminded myself. It’s not like I’d never done a distraction for Ranger before. Piece of cake, right?”

 

My god! What is that?! I read over it. “What the hell is this?” I ask myself. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m just going to go with this until I get to the scene where she throws herself into his arms and kisses him like she’s never kissed someone before and swear that she loves him.

 

I put my ink pen back to the paper. My fingers flew through sheets of paper. My hand would cramp and I rubbed it out, a mad gleam in my eye as I tried to remember everything flowing through my mind. I finally got to the end. By no means did Stephanie throw herself into his arms. She backed him into a wall and wrapped a leg around his thigh. She drew him into her, pressed herself against every hard inch of him and brushed her lips over his. And as quickly as she did that, she walked away from him.

 

WTF am I writing? I asked myself, reading back over it. I was cross-eyed. Delirious. I glanced back at the microwave clock and rubbed my eyes. It was almost six am!

 

I shoved the papers into my desk, underneath the keyboard covered in three inches of dust and dropped the cover over them. I hustled back upstairs and fell into bed, asleep before my head even hit the pillow.

 

Eight AM comes very early to someone on two hours of sleep.

 

I wrote about 40 pages of Mission: Distraction (which wasn’t what I ended posting and at this point wasn’t even titled), before I ever had the nerve to type it up. I knew how to type. I was a computer major in college. I type faster than my brain can keep up. But there was something very intimidating about the computer. I felt very phony. And I dared to breathe a word of my obsession to my younger sister- who at the time was very obsessed with Sailor Moon (Anime) fan fiction.

 

“You should post it.”

 

“NO!” I shook my head violently side to side. “No way. I’m too old for that crap. I don’t know why I wrote it. Surely I’ll get sued.”

 

“No way, dude. There’s a ton of stuff out there.” She pulled up her email account. “Listen. What do you have to lose? I’ll email you the site link to that fan fiction site.”

 

I made myself sick on the way home. Post it? Was she insane? Clearly she was because she was in the same family as me, but I couldn’t post this. I didn’t own these characters. People would make fun of me. They would KNOW it was me.

 

Wouldn’t they?

 

When I was in high school, I was being a smart ass to my English teacher and in my goal for what I wanted to do after high school I put: I’m going to be on the top of the NYT someday.

 

My English teacher thought this was brilliant. I laughed in her face. I hate writing. Why would I ever write for fun?

 

What did I have to lose?  Everything, I swore to myself. Okay so that might be a little melodramatic. But surely I’m too old to post “fan fiction” as my sister liked to refer to it as. And still, this writing thing was still in my head. I had to write something else. She was still talking to me. Telling me where she wanted to go next. Telling me what she wanted to do. This wasn’t good. I was obsessed!

 

I got home in a mood. The night was ruined. My stomach was churning. I might have sweated a little bit. I pulled up the email account and sure enough, there was an email from my sister.

 

Hey. I checked into that for you. You have to sign up for a penname

and there’s a three day wait. If you want to sign up, do it now before

you have a chance to think about it.

Buck up. Don’t be a chickenshit.

 

And at the bottom was the link to the site. I sweated it out for a minute. Palms sweaty. Mouth drier than the Mohave. Knees knocking. Did I dare click on it? I’m known for doing crap that I wished I hadn’t. I’m too impulsive for my own good. I mean, look where this reading thing got me! I knew I shouldn’t have picked up that book Janine told me too. “Just read this book. I know you’ll like it.” I shook my head politely NO. I’m not into those sorts of books. I told her. I like historicals. “No. NO. No. You’ll love this. Stephanie Plum is a riot. This is the eighth book. You don’t have to read them in order. I really think you’ll enjoy it.” Still I shake my head no. I hold this woman off for two years on this Stephanie Plum book obsession she had going on. And then I caved and now it has me getting up in the middle of the night like a thief and stealing downstairs to write like a mad woman until dawn.

 

So I click on the link. Fanfiction.net. It seems pretty harmless. There’s something like 10 pages to browse through of Stephanie Plum fan fiction. I read one. Someone rewrote the last scene in Eleven on Top in Ranger’s POV. I fell in love. I read this story about a million times. Never would I have ever thought to write in another POV. Stephanie felt natural to me, but this writer made Ranger come alive in front of my eyes. I felt his desperation. I felt his hunger for revenge. I felt his overwhelming moment of relief to find her alive. I was looking through his eyes and seeing the tears brushing along her lower lashes. Knew she thought she was going to die. Knew that she kept telling herself over and over again that he’d save her.

 

And in that moment I knew what I had to do. I went to the sign in page and filled out the necessary information. No one would ever know me. No one would know it was ME. I could do this anonymously.

 

No one would ever find out!

 

Wrong. I’m at something close to 35 fan fiction stories for Stephanie Plum two years later. Two full length stories under my belt, two novellas, and dozens of short stories. Fan fiction gave me the courage to try to write something of my own. Gave me the courage to reach out to other people, other writers and talk to them. Helped me meet women who I’ll never forget, who I’ll always be friends with, and gave me more sisters. Partners in crime.

 

So, I know that was long. I’m getting back into the old habit of long-windedness.

 

Tell me about your first time writing. The first time you wrote a scene you never thought you’d be able to write. The first time you wrote anything. Did it come out the way you wanted it or was it something completely different from what you envisioned? For our reading wenches, how about the first time you found a community for your favorite author? Did you have a hard time just jumping in there?

A little rum-soused undead monkey told me our very own Lisa is having a birthday today! Please join us in wishing her a Happy Birthday. (All gifts of rum and money can be directed to the Captain who will pass them along to Lisa….)

 

Captain Jack says because it is such a special occasion, we should put up more pictures for the lovely Lisa to enjoy–and he did offer himself (nude) for everyone’s, um, viewing pleasure, but since I’m the captain, I thought I’d post these instead: